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FEM  LEAVES 

FROM  FARIJY’S  PORT -FOLIO 


Nev/  York 
Belford  Clark 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/fernleavesfromfa00fern_0 


PREFACE. 


I NEVER  bad  the  slightest  intention  of  writing  a 
book.  Had  such  a thought  entered  my  mind,  I 
should  not  long  have  entertained  it.  It  would  have 
seemed  presumptuous.  What ! /,  Fanny  Fern,  write 
a book  I I never  could  have  believed  it  possible. 

How,  then,  came  the  book  to  be  written  ? some  one 
may  ask.  Well,  that ’s  just  what  puzzles  me.  I can 
only  answer  in  the  dialect  of  the  immortal  Topsy,’* 
I ’spect  it  growed  !”  And,  such  as  it  is,  it  must  go 
forth;  for  “what  is  written,  is  written^^^  and  — ster- 
eotyped. 

So,  dear  readers  (for  I certainly  number  some 
warm,  friendly  hearts  among  you),  here  is  my  book, 
which  I sincerely  wish  were  worthier  of  your  regard. 
But  I can  only  offer  you  a few  “ Fern  leaves,’’  gath- 
ered at  random,  in  shady  spots,  where  sunbeams  sel- 
dom play,  and  which  I little  thought  ever  to  press 
for  your  keeping. 

Many  of  the  articles  submitted  were  written  foi 


PREFACE, 


FI 

and  published  in  the  Boston  Olive  Branch,  Boston 
True  Flag,  and  the  New  York  Musical  World  and 
Times,  while  many  are  now  here  published  for  the 
first  time. 

Some  of  the  articles  are  sad,  some  are  gay ; each 
is  independent  of  all  the  others,  and  the  work  is 
consequently  disconnected  and  fragmentary;  but,  if 
the  reader  will  imagine  me  peeping  over  his  shoulder, 
quite  happy  should  he  pay  me  the  impromptu  com- 
pliment of  a smile  or  a tear,  it  is  possible  we^  may 
come  to  a good  understanding  by  the  time  the  book 
shall  have  been  perused 


Fanny  Fern. 


CONTENTS 


PAom 

‘The  Still  Small  Voice,*’ 11 

Look  on  this  Picture,  and  then  on  that, 16 

The  Widow’s  Trials, 17 

My  Little  Sunbeam, 

Self-Conquest, 26 

“ Our  Hatty,” 83 

Two  in  Heaven,  40 

“ Summer  Days;”  or.  The  Young  Wife’s  Affliction,  ....  41 

Comfort  for  the  Widow, 47 

Thorns  for  the  Rose, 4l 

Thanksgiving  Story, 69 

Summer  Friends  ; or.  Will  is  Might, 61 

Nil  Desperandum,” 67 

Cecile  Grey, 69 

Childhood’s  Trust, 74 

Elise  De  Vaux, 76 

The  Wail  of  a Broken  Heart, 81 

Mary  Lee, 83 

A Talk  about  Babies, 89 

Elsie’s  First  Trial, 91 

A Night-Watch  with  a Dead  Infant, 98 

A Practical  Blu^-Stocking, 100 

The  Little  Pauper, 105 

Edith  May  ; or.  The  Mistake  of  a Life-Time, 108 

Mabel’s  Soliloquy, 114 

How  Husbands  may  Rule, 116 

Little  Charley, 120 

The  Lost  and  the  Living, 122 


8 


CONTENTS. 


PAQB 

^)n  a Little  Child  who  had  crept  before  a Looking-Glass  that 

was  left  upon  the  Sidewalk, 126 

Kitty's  Resolve, 128 

Woman, 133 

The  Passionate  Father, 135 

The  Partial  Mother, 139 

The  Ball-Room  and  the  Nursery, 141 

All 's  Well, 146 

How  Woman  Loves, 149 

A Mother's  Soliloquy, 167 

The  Invalid  Wife, 159 

The  Stray  Lamb, 163 

Lena  May  ; or.  Darkness  and  Light, 166 

Thoughts  Born  of  a Caress, 173 

A Chapter  on  Literary  Women,  . . . . r 176 

He  who  has  most  of  Heart, 180 

Dark  Days, 182 

Night,  186 

Children’s  Rights, 188 

Sorrow’s  Teachings,  . . 192 

“ An  Infidel  Mother,” 194 

Little  Charlie,  the  Child- Angel, 197 

The  Cross  and  the  Crown, 202 

Lilia,  the  Orphan, • . • . 204 

Observing  the  Sabbath, 210 

The  Prophet’s  Chamber, 214 

Lilies  of  the  Valley, 219 

Grandfather  Glen, 221 

The  Widow’s  Prayer, 227 

The  Step-Mother, 230 

A Word  to  Mothers,  234 

The  Test  of  Love, 236 

Child-Life, 240 

“ The  Old  House,” 243 

“ Seeing  the  Folly  of  it,”  246 

The  Transplanted  Lily, * . 250 

No  Fiction, 257 

Incident  at  Mount  Auburn, 260 


CONTENTS. 


9 


PIGB 

A Sunday  Morning  Soliloquy, 263 

Little  Allie, 266 

The  Flirt  ; or,  the  Unfaithful  Lover, 271 

Fern  Glen, 277 

Minnie, 282 

Sweet-Briar  Farm,  284 

“ The  Angel-Child,” 290 

Not  a “ Model  Minister,” 293 

“ Merry  Christmas  ! — Happy  Christmas  ! ” 206 

Leta, 298 

The  Model  Step-Mother, 301 

A Page  from  a Woman’s  Heart ; or.  Female  Heroism,  . . . 303 

Little  May, 311 

The  Best  of  Men  have  their  Failings,  ..  ^1^ 

Nicodemus  Ney, 315 

Advice  to  Ladies,  •.•••••..  317 

The  Model  Widow, 320 

The  Model  Widower, 322 

The  Tear  of  a Wife, 324 

Editors, • . . 326 

Bachelor  Housekeeping, 329 

Borrowed  Light, 331 

Mistaken  Philanthropy, 333 

The  Model  Minister,  . . , . 835 

The  Weaker  Vessel, * 337 

A Tempest  in  a Thimble,  339 

The  Quiet  Mr.  Smith, 341 

Prudence  Prim, 343 

Men’s  Dickeys  never  fit  exactly, . . 345 

A Little  Bunker  Hill, 346 

Soliloquy  of  Rev.  Mr.  Parish, 348 

Tim  Treadwell, 350 

The  Model  Lady, 851 

Important  for  Married  Men, 362 

Mr.  Clapp’s  Soliloquy, * 364 

What  Ml’S.  Smith  said, 366 

Everybody’s  Vacation  except  Editors’, 357 

Old  Jeremiah  ; or.  Sunny  Days, 369 

A* 


10 


CONTENTS 


PAAS. 

“I  can’t,” '6(j'2 

A Ciiapter  on  Clergymen, 364 

Uncle  Jabe, 367 

An  InteroBting  Husband,  369 

Indulgent  Husbands, 373 

Al  Fern  Soliloquy, 375 

Aunt  Hetty  on  Matrimony,  377 

Was  n’t  you  caught  Napping  ? 380 

A Lady  on  Money  Matters,  . 382 

Mrs.  Croaker, 384 

The  Bore  of  the  Sanctum, 392 

Owls  kill  Humming-Birds,  897 


Jem  Icabes — Jirst  .Snics. 


^‘THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE/’ 

Poor,  tired  little  Frank ! He  had  gazed  at  that  stereo- 
typed street  panorama,  till  his  eyelids  were  drooping  with 
i^veariness.  Omnibuses,  carts,  cabs,  wheelbarrows,  men, 
women,  horses,  and  children  ; the  same  old  story.  There 
is  a little  beggar-boy  driving  hoop.  Franky  never  drives 
hoop  ; — no,  he  is  dressed  too  nicely  for  that.  Once  in  a 
while  he  takes  the  air ; but  Peter  the  serving-man,  or 
Bridget  the  nurse,  holds  his  hand  very  tightly,  lest  he 
should  soil  his  embroidered  frock.  Now  little  Frank 
changes  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  then  he  creeps 
up  to  his  young  mamma,  who  lies  half-buried  in  those 
satin  cushions,  reading  the  last  new  novel,  and  lays  his 
hand  on  her  soft  curls  ; but  she  shakes  him  off  with  an 
impatient  “ Don’t  Franky  and  he  creeps  back  again  to 
the  window. 

There  winds  a funeral  slowly  past.  How  sad  the 
mourners  look,  clad  in  sable,  with  their  handkerchiefs  to 
their  eyes ! It  is  a child’s  funeral,  too  ; for  there  is  no 
hearse,  and  the  black  pall  floats  from  the  first  carriage 
window,  like  a signal  of  distress.  A sudden  thought 
strikes  Franky,  — the  tears  spring  to  his  eyes,  and 


12 


THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE. 


creeping  again  to  his  mother’s  side,  he  says,  “ Mamma, 
must  I die,  too  ? ” 

The  young  mother  says,  abstractedly,  without  raising 
her  blue  eyes  from  the  novel  she  is  reading,  “ What  did 
you  say,  Frank  ? ” 

‘‘  Mamma,  must  I die,  too  ? ” 

“Yes  — no  ! What  an  odd  question!  Pull  the  bell, 
Charley.  Here,  Peter,  take  Frank  up  stairs  to  the  nurs- 
ery, and  coax  Bruno  along  to  play  tricks  for  him  and 
Frank’s  mamma  settles  herself  down  again  upon  her 
luxurious  cushions. 

The  room  is  very  quiet,  now  that  Franky  is  banished ; 
nobody  is  in  it  but  herself  and  the  canary.  Her  position 
is  quite  easy ; her  favorite  book  between  her  fingers,  — 
why  not  yield  herself  again  to  the  author’s  witching 
spell  ? WTiy  do  the  words,  “ Must  I die,  too,”  stare  at 
her  from  every  page  ? They  were  but  a child’s  words. 
She  is  childish  to  heed  them ; and  she  rises,  lays  aside 
the  book,  and  sweeps  her  white  hand  across  her  harp- 
strings,  while  her  rich  voice  floats  musically  upon  the 
air.  One  stanza  only  she  sings,  then  her  hands  fall  by 
her  side ; for  still  that  little,  plaintive  voice  keeps  ring- 
ing in  her  ear,  “ Must  I die,  too,  mamma  ? ” 

Death  ! — why,  it  is  a thing  she  has  never  thought  of ; 
— and  she  walks  up  to  the  long  mirror.  Death  for  her 
with  that  beaming  eye,  and  scarlet  lip,  and  rosy  cheek 
and  sunny  tress,  and  rounded  limb,  and  springing  step  ? 


“THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE.” 


IS 


Death  for  her,  with  broad  lands,  and  full  coffers,  and  the 
world  of  fashion  at  her  feet  ? Death  for  her,  with  the 
love  of  that  princely  husband,  who  covets  even  the  kiss 
of  the  breeze  as  it  fans  her  white  brow  ? Darkness, 
decay  — oblivion?  (No,  not  oblivion!  There  is  a fu- 
ture, but  she  has  never  looked  into  it.) 


“Well,  which  is  it,  my  pet,  the  opera,  the  concert,  or 
Madame  B.’s  soiree  ^ T am  yours  to  command.” 

“Neither,  I beiieve,  Walter.  I am  out  of  tune  to- 
night;  or,  as  Madame  B.  would  say,  ‘Vaporish;’  so  T 
shall  inflict  myself  on  nobody.  But  — ” 

“ 0,  I beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Bose ; I am  fond  of  a 
merry  face,  too.  Smile,  now,  or  I ’m  off  to  the  club,  or 
the  billiard  room ; or,  as  husbands  say  when  they  are 
‘ hard  up  ’ for  an  excuse,  I have  ‘ a business  engage- 
ment.’ What ! a tear  ? What  grief  can  ymi  have,  little 
Rose  ? ” 

“ You  know,  Walter,  what  a strange  child  our  Frank 
is.  Well,  he  asked  me  such  an  odd,  old-fashioned  ques- 
tion to-day,  ‘Must  I die,  too,  mamma  ?’  in  that  little  flute- 
like voice  of  his,  and  it  set  me  thinking,  that ‘s  all.  I 
can’t  rid  myself  of  it ; and,  dear  Walter,”  said  she,  lay- 
ing her  tearful  cheek  upon  his  shoulder,  “ I don’t  know 
that  I ought  to  try.” 

“ O,  nonsense.  Rose  ! ” said  the  gay  husband,  “ don’! 


14 


THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE. 


turn  Methodist,  if  you  love  me.  Aunt  Charity  hcfcD  relig- 
ion  enough  for  the  whole  nation.  You  can’t  ask  her 
which  way  the  wind  is,  but  you  have  a description  of 
‘ Canaan.’  Religion  is  well  enough  for  priests ; it  is 
their  stock  in  trade  ; — well  enough  for  children  and  old 
people ; — well  enough  for  ancient  virgins,  who  like  vestry 
meetings  to  pass  away  a long  evening ; but  for  ymi^ 
Rose,  the  very  queen  of  love  and  beauty,  in  the  first 
flush  of  youth  and  health  — pshaw  ! Call  Camille  to 
arrange  your  hair,  and  let’s  to  the  opera.  Time  enough, 
my  pet,  to  think  of  religion,  when  you  see  your  first  gray 
hair.” 

Say  you  so,  man  of  the  sinewy  limb  and  flashing  eye  ? 
See ! — up  Calvary’s  rugged  steep  a slender  form  bends 
wearily  beneath  its  heavy  cross  ! That  sinless  side, 
those  hands,  those  feet  are  pierced  — for  you.  Tortured, 
athirst,  faint,  agonized,  — the  dark  cloud  hiding  the 
Father’s  face,  — that  mournful  wail  rings  out  on  the  still 
air,  “ My  Grod ! my  Grod  ! why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? ” 

The  dregs  of  life^  our  offering  for  all  this  priceless 
love,  0 sinless  Son  of  God ! The  palsied  hand,  and 
clouded  brain,  and  stammering  tongue,  and  leaden  foot 
of  age,  thy  trophies  ? God  forbid  ! And  yet,  alas  ! 
amid  dance,  and  song,  and  revel,  that  “ still  small  voice  ” 
was  hushed.  The  winged  hours,  mis-spent  and  wasted, 
flew  wickly  past.  No  tear  of  repentance  fell ; no  sup 


“THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE. 


15 


pliant  knee  was  bent ; no  household  altar  flame  sent  up 
its  grateful  incense. 


“ Must  I die,  too  ? ” 

Sweet  child  ! — but  as  the  sun  dies ; but  as  the  stars 
fade  out ; but  as  the  flowers  die,  for  a resurrection  morn  ^ 
Close  the  searching  eye  beneath  the  prisoning  lid  ; cross 
the  busy  hands  over  the  pulseless  heart.  Life — life  eter- 
nal ! for  thee,  thou  young  immortal ! 

Joy  to  thee,  young  mother ! From  that  little  grave,  so 
tear-bedewed,  the  flower  of  repentance  springs,  at  last. 
No  tares  shall  choke  it ; no  blight  or  mild^3w  blast  it : 
God’s  smile  shall  be  its  sunshine,  and  heaven  thy  reward 


Lear  reader ; so  the  good  Shepherd  hides  the  little 
lamb  in  his  arms,  that  she  who  gave  it  life  may  hear  its 
voice  and  follow. 


LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE,  AND 
THEN  ON  THAT. 


Father  is  coming!”  and  little,  round  faces  grow 
long,  and  merry  voices  are  hushed,  and  toys  are  hustled 
into  the  closet;  and  mamma  glances  nervously  at  the 
door ; and  baby  is  bribed  with  a lump  of  sugar  to  keep 
the  peace ; and  father’s  business  face  relaxes  not  a 
muscle ; and  the  little  group  huddle  like  timid  sheep  in 
a corner,  and  tea  is  despatched  as  silently  as  if  speak- 
ing were  prohibited  by  the  statute  book ; and  the  chil- 
dren creep  like  culprits  to  bed,  marvelling  that  baby  dare 
crow  so  loud,  now  that  “ Father  has  come.” 


“ Father  is  coming!  ” and  bright  eyes  sparkle  for  joy, 
and  tiny  feet  dance  with  glee^  and  eager  faces  press 
against  the  window-pane;  and  a bevy  of  rosy  lips  claim 
kisses  at  the  door ; and  picture-books  lie  unrebuked  on 
the  table ; and  tops,  and  balls,  and  dolls,  and  kites  are 
discussed ; and  little  Susy  lays  her  soft  cheek  against  the 
paternal  whiskers  with  the  most  fearless  “abandon;” 
and  Charley  gets  a love-pat  for  his  “medal;”  and  mam- 
ma’s face  grows  radiant;  and  the  evening  paper  is  read, 
— not  silently,  but  aloud,  — and  tea,  and  toast,  and  time 
vanish  with  equal  celerity,  for  jubilee  has  arrived,  and 
“ Father  has  come ! ” 


THE  WIDOW’S  TRIALS. 


The  funeral  was  over,  and  Janie  Grey  came  back  to 
her  desolate  home.  There  were  the  useless  drugs,  the 
tempting  fruits  and  flowers,  which  came  all  too  late  for  the 
sinking  sufferer.  Wherever  her  eye  fell,  there  was  some 
sad  reminiscence  to  torture  her.  They,  whose  life  had 
been  all  sunshine,  came  in  from  cheerful  homes,  whose 
threshold  death’s  shadow  had  never  darkened,  to  offer 
consolation.  All  the  usual  phrases  of  stereotyped  con- 
dolence had  fallen  upon  her  ear ; and  now  they  had  all 
gone,  and  the  world  would  move  on  just  the  same  that 
there  was  one  mo^b  broken  heart  in  it.  She  must  bear 
her  weary  weight  of  woe  alone.  She  knew  that  her  star 
had  set.  Earth,  sea  and  sky  had  no  beauty  now,  since 
the  eye  that  worshipped  them  with  her  was  closed  and 


“ Wliom  the  Lord  loveth,  he  chasteneth,”  said  Uncle 
John,  joining  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  either  hand,  and 
settling  himself  in  a vestry  attitude,  to  say  his  lesson. 
“ Afflictions  come  not  out  of  the  ground.  Man  is  out 

2 


18 


THE  widow’s  trials. 


down  like  a flower.  God  is  the  God  of  thv  »7idow  and 
the  fatherless.  I suppose  you  find  it  so  ? ” said  he,  look- 
ing into  the  widow’s  face. 

“I  can  scarcely  tell,”  said  Janie.  “This  was  a light- 
ning flash  from  a summer  cloud.  My  eyes  are  blinded ; 
I cannot  see  the  bow  of  promise.” 

“ Wrong  ; all  wrong,”  said  Uncle  John.  “ The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  has  taken  away.  You  ought  to  be 
resigned.  I ’m  afraid  you  don’t  enjoy  religion.  Afflic- 
tions are  mercies  in  disguise.  I ’ll  lend  you  this  volume 
of  ‘ Dew-Drops  ’ to  read.  You  must  get  submissive, 
somehow,  or  you  will  have  some  other  trouble  sent  upon 
you.  Good  morning.” 

Uncle  John  was  a rigid  sectarian,  of  the  bluest  school 
of  divinity  ; enjoyed  an  immense  reputation  for  sanctity, 
than  which  nothing  dearer  to  him,  save  the  contents 
of  his  pocket-book.  It  was  his  glory  to  he  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  parish  gatherings  and  committees ; to  ^*6  con- 
sulted on  the  expediency  of  sending  tracts  to  the  Kan 
garoo  Islands  ; to  be  present  at  the  laying  of  corner- 
stones for  embryo  churches ; to  shine  conspicuously  at 
ordinations,  donation  visits.  Sabbath-school  celebrations, 
colporteur  meetings,  — in  short,  anything  that  smacked 
of  a church-steeple,  or  added  one  inch  to  the  length  and 
brc.  ith  of  his  pharisaical  skirt.  He  pitied  the  poor,  as 
every  g od  Christian  should  ; but  he  never  allowed  them 
to  put  then  hands  in  nis  pocket ; — that  was  a territory 


! 


i 


THE  WIDOW'b  TEIAL8. 


19 


over  which  the  church  had  no  control,  — it  belonged 
entirely  to  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 

Uncle  John  sat  in  his  counting-room,  looking  very 
satisfactorily  at  the  proof-sheets  of  “ The  Morning  Star,” 
of  which  he  was  editor.  He  had  just  glanced  over  his 
long  list  of  subscribers,  and  congratulated  himself  that 
matters  were  in  such  a prosperous  condition.  Then  he 
took  out  a large  roll  of  bank  bills,  and  fingered  them 
most  affectionately ; then  he  frowned  ominously  at  a pooi 
beggar  child,  who  peeped  in  at  the  door ; smoothed  his 
chin,  and  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  rocking-chair. 

A rap  at  the  door  of  the  counting-room.  “May  I 
come  in,  uncle?”  and  Janie’s  long,  black  veil  was  thrown 
back  from  her  sad  face. 

“Y-e-s,”  said  Uncle  John,  rather  frigidly.  “Pretty 
busy,  — ’spose  you  won’t  stay  long  ? ” and  he  pushed  his 
porte-monnaie  further  down  in  his  pocket. 

“ I came  to  ask,”  said  Janie,  timidly,  “ if  you  would 
employ  me  to  write  for  your  paper.  Matters  are  more 
desperate  with  me  than  I thought,  and  there  is  a neces- 
sity for  my  doing  something  immediately.  I believe  I 
have  talents  that  I might  turn  to  account  as  a writer.  I 
have  literally  no'hing.  Uncle  John,  to  depend  upon.” 

“ Your  husband  was  an  extravagant  man ; — lived  too 
fast,  — that ’s  the  trouble,  — lived  too  fast.  Ought  to 
have  been  economical  as  I was,  when  I was  a young  man. 
Uan’t  have  your  cake  and  eat  it,  too.  Can’t  expect  me  to 


20 


THE  widow’s  'J..  IALS. 


make  up  for  other  people’s  deficiencies.  You  must  takf^ 
care  of  yourself^ 

Certainly,  that’s  just  what  I wish  to  do,”  said  Janie, 
struggling  to  restrain  her  tears.  “I  — I — ” but  sIk^ 
only  finished  the  sentence  with  sobs ; the  contrast  between 
the  sunny  past  and  the  gloomy  present  was  too  strong 
for  her  troubled  heart. 

Now,  if  there  w^as  anythir^g  Uncle  John  mortally 
hated,  it  was  to  see  a woman  cry.  hi  all  such  cases 
he  irritated  the  victim  till  she  took  a speedy  and  fren 
zied  leave.  So  he  remarked  again  that  “ Mr.  May  was 
extravagant,  else  there  would  have  been  something  left. 
He  was  sorry  he  was  dead ; but  that  was  a thing  he 
was  n’t  to  blame  for, — and  he  did  n’t  know  any  reason 
why  he  should  be  bothered  about  it.  The  world  was  fiill 
of  widows ; — they  all  went  to  work,  he  supposed,  and 
took  care  of  themselves.” 

‘‘  If  you  will  tell  me  whether  you  can  employ  me  to 
write  for  you,”  said  the  wi^ow,  “I  will  not  trouble  you 
longer.” 

“ 1 have  plenty  who  will  write  for  nothing,”  said  the 
old  man.  “ Market  is  overstocked  with  that  sort  of  thing. 
Can’t  afford  to  pay  contributors,  special!  v new  beginners. 
Don’t  think  you  have  any  talent  that  way,  either.  Bet- 
ter take  in  sewing,  or  something,”  said  he,  taking  out  his 
watch,  by  way  of  a reminder  that  she  had  better  be 


going. 


THB  widow’s  trials. 


21 


The  young  widow  could  scarcely  see  her  way  out 
through  her  fast-falling  tears.  It  was  her  first  bitter 
lesson  in  the’  world’s  selfishness.  She,  whose  tender  feet 
had  been  so  Jove-guided,  to  walk  life’s  thorny  path  alone ; 
she,  for  whom  no  gift  was  rich,  or  rare,  or  costly  enough ; 
she,  who  had  leaned  so  trustingly  on  the  dear  arm  now  so 
powerless  to  shield  her  ; she,  to  whom  love  was  life, 
breath,  being,  to  meet  only  careless  glances,  — nay,  more, 
harsh  and  taunting  words.  0,  where  should  that  stricken 
heart  find  rest,  this  side  heaven  ? 

Yet  she  might  not  yield  to  despair;  there  was  a little 
innocent,  helpless  one,  for  whom  she  must  live  on,  and 
toil,  and  struggle.  Was  the  world  all  darkness  ? Bent 
every  knee  at  Mammon’s  shrine  ? Beat  every  human 
heart  only  for  its  own  joys  and  sorrows  ? 

Days  and  months  rolled  on.  Uncle  John  said  his 
prayers,  and  went  to  church,  and  counted  over  his  dear 
bank  bills ; and  the  widow  sat  up  till  the  stars  grew 
pale,  and  bent  wearily  over  long  pages  of  manuscript ; 
and  little  Rudolph  lay  with  his  rosy  cheek  nestled  to  the 
pillow,  crushing  his  bright  ringlets,  all  unconscious  of  the 
weary  vigil  the  young  mother  was  keeping.  And  now  it 
was  New-Year’s  night;  and,  as  she  laid  aside  her  pen, 
memory  called  her  back  to  rich,  sunny  days,  — to  a lux- 
urious home.  Again  she  was  leaning  on  that  broad,  true 
oreast.  Troops  of  friends  were  about  them.  0,  where 
were  they  now  ? Then  she  looked  upon  her  small,  plainlj 


THE  widow’s  trials. 


furnished  room,  so  unattractive  to  the  eye  of  taste  and 
refinement ; — then  it  fell  upon  her  child,  too  young  tc 
remember  that  father,  whose  last  act  was  to  kiss  his  baby 
brow. 

Still  the  child  slumbered  on,  — his  red  lips  parted  with 
a smile,  — and,  for  the  first  time,  she  noted  the  little 
stocking,  yet  warm  from  the  dimpled  foot,  hung  close  by 
the  pillow,  with  childhood’s  beautiful  trust  in  angel  hands 
to  fill  it ; and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  wept 
aloud,  that  this  simple  luxury  must  be  denied  a mother’s 
heart.  Then,  extinguishing  her  small  lamp,  she  laid 
her  tearful  cheek  against  the  rosy  little  sleeper,  with 
that  instinctive  yearning  for  sympathy,  which  only  the 
wretched  know.  In  slumber  there  is,  at  least,  forgetful- 
ness. Kind  angels  whisper  hope  in  dreams. 

The  golden  light  of  New-Year’s  morning  streamed 
through  the  partially  opened  shutters  upon  the  curly 
head  that  already  nestled  uneasily  on  its  pillow.  The 
blue  eyes  opened  slowly,  like  violets  kissed  by  the 
sun,  and  the  little  hand  was  outstretched  to  grasp  the 
empty  stocking.  His  lip  quivered,  and  tears  of  disap- 
pointment forced  themselves  through  his  tiny  fingers  ; 
while  his  mother  rose,  sad  and  unrefreshed,  to  meet 
another  day  of  toil.  And  Uncle  John,  oblivious  of 
everything  that  might  collapse  his  purse,  sat  comfortably 
in  his  rocking-chair,  “too  busy”  to  call  on  his  niece. 
Treading,  not  in  his  Lord’s  footsteps,  where  sorrow,  and 


miflct  7,  and  want,  made  foot-tracks,  but  where  the  well 
warmed,  well-clad,  and  well-filled,  sat  at  Dives^  table. 

Time  flew  on.  A brighter  day  dawned  for  J anie.  She 
had  triumphed  over  disappointments  and  discouragements 
before  which  stouter  hearts  than  hers  had  quailed.  Com- 
fort and  independence  were  again  hers,  — earned  by  her 
own  untiring  hand.  Uncle  John  was  not  afraid  of  her 
now.  He  turned  no  more  short  corners  to  avoid  her. 
She  needed  no  assistance.  Uncle  John  liked  to  notice 
that  sort  of  people.  He  grew  amiable,  even  facetious ; 
and,  one  day,  in  his  uproarioustiess,  actually  sent  a three- 
cent-piece  to  his  nephew,  whom  he  had  not  inquired  for 
for  three  long  years. 

Janie’s  praises  reached  him  from  every  quarter ; and 
he  took  a great  deal  of  pains  to  let  people  know  that  this 
new  literary  light  was  his  niece.  Had  he  known  she 
would  have  turned  out  such  a star,  he  would  have  em- 
ployed her.  Now  she  was  swelling  other  editors’  sub^ 
scription  lists,  instead  of  his.  That  was  a feature  of  the 
case  he  was  fully  prepared  to  understand  ! 

“No  talent  that  way  ! ” said  Janie  to  herself,  as  she 
saw  him,  at  last,  very  coolly  transfer,  with  his  editorial 
hand,  her  articles  to  “The  Morning  Star,”  without  credit, 
without  remuneration  to  herself.  Sanctimonious,  avari- 
cious Uncle  John  ! Did  you  count  the  weary  vigils  they 
cost  the  writer  ? Did  you  count  the  tears  which  blis 
tercd  their  pagt^s  - Did  you  dream  of  the  torturing 


24 


THE  widow’s  trials. 


process  by  which  the  bird  was  blinded,  ere  it  could  b<? 
learned  to  sing  so  sweetly  ? Knew  you  that  those  gush- 
ing notes  reached  you,  through  prison  bars,  from  a weary 
captive’s  throat?  No,  no,  Uncle  John  ! how  should  you? 
For  where  your  heart  should  have  been,  there  was  a 
decided  vacuum. 


\ 

MY  LITTLE  SUNBEAM, 

Never  saw  my  little  sunbeam  ? Well,  she  was  a little 
creature  who  passed  my  window  each  day,  on  her  way 
to  school,  and  who  made  my  acquaintance,  child  fashion, 
with  a smile.  Perhaps  none  but  myself  would  have 
called  her  pretty ; but  her  eyes  were  full  of  love,  and 
her  voice  of  music.  Every  day  she  laid  a little  bunch 
of  violets  on  my  window.  You  might  have  thought  it 
a trifling  gift,  but  it  was  much  to  me ; for,  after  my 
little  sunbeam  had  vanished,  I closed  my  eyes  and  the 
fragrance  of  those  tiny  flowers  carried  me  back,  O, 
whither  ? 

They  told  of  a fragrant,  shadowy  wood ; of  a rippling 
brook  ; of  a bird^s  song ; of  whispered  leaf-music  ; of  a 
mossy  seat ; of  dark,  soul-lit  eyes ; of  a voice  sweet,  and 
low,  and  thrilling ; of  a vow  that  was  never  broken  till 
death  chilled  the  lips  that  made  it.  God  shield  my  little 
Sunbeam  ! May  she  And  more  roses  than  thorns  in  he> 
earthly  pathway. 

B 


SELF-CONQUEST. 


“ Well  Bridget,  what  do  you  think  of  the  br-de  ? ’’ 

“ 0,  she ’s  a pretty  young  thing ; but  if  she  had  known 
as  much  as  you  and  I do  of  her  husband’s  mother,  she 
never  would  have  come  to  live  with  her.  She ’s  a regu- 
lar old  hyena,  and  if  she  don’t  bring  the  tears  into  those 
blue  eyes  before  the  honey-moon  is  over,  my  name  is  n’t 
Bridget.  Why,  she ’s  the  most  owdacious  old  thing ! 
She  overhauled  all  her  wardrobe  yesterday,  before  she 
could  get  here ; and,  as  I passed  through  the  entry,  1 
heard  her  muttering  to  herself,  ‘ Silk  stockings,  humph  I 
— ruffled  under-clothes  ! Wonder  if  she  thinks  I ’ll  have 
them  ironed  here  ? Embroidered  night-caps,  silk  dresses ! 
Destruction  and  ruin  ! ’ ” 

“ I ’ll  tell  you  what,  Bridget,  there  never  was  a house 
built  yet,  that  was  big  enough  for  two  families  to  live  in ; 
and  you  ’ll  find  out  that  this  won’t  be,  I reckon.” 


“ What ! tears,  Emma  ? — tears ! ” said  the  young  hus- 
band, as  he  returned  from  his  counting-room  one  day, 
about  a month  after  thoir  marriage  ; and,  with  a look  of 


SILF-OONQUEST. 


27 


anxiety,  he  drew  her  closer  to  his  breast.  “ Tell  me,  you 
do  not  so  soon  repent  your  choice  ? ” The  little,  rosy 
mouth  was  held  up  temptingly  for  a kiss ; and  in  those 
blue  eyes  he  read  the  answer  his  heart  was  seeking. 

“ What,  then,  is  your  pet  canary  sick  ? Can’t  you 
dress  your  hair  to  suit  you  ? Or  are  you  in  despair 
because  you  can’t  decide  in  which  of  all  your  dresses 
you  look  prettiest  ? ” 

Don’t  be  ridiculous,  Harry ! ” said  Emma,  laughing 
and  crying  together.  “ I feel  nervous,  that ’s  all.  I ’ra 
so  glad  you  ’ve  come  home.” 

Harry  felt  sure  that  was  not  all ; but  he  forbore  to 
question  her,  for  he  felt  very  sure  she  would  tell  him  all 
in  good  time. 

The  truth  was,  Harry’s  mother  had  been  lecturing  hei 
daughter-in-law,  all  the  morning,  upon  the  degeneracy  of 
the  times;  — hoped  she  would  not  think  of  putting  on  all 
the  fine  things  her  friends  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  rig  her 
out  in  ! — times  were  not  now,  as  they  used  to  be  ! — that 
if  Harry  gave  her  pocket-money,  she  had  better  give  it  to 
her  to  keep,  and  not  be  spending  it  for  nonsense ; — that  a 
young  wife’s  place  was  in  her  husband’s  house  ; — and  sue 
hoped  she  would  leave  off  that  babyish  trick,  of  running 
home  every  day  to  see  her  mother  and  sisters. 

Emma  listened  in  silent  amazement.  She  was  a warm- 
hearted, affectionate  girl,  but  she  was  very  high-spirited. 
The  color  came  and  went  rapidly  in  her  cheek  ; but  she 


28 


SBLF-CONQUB&T  . 


forced  back  the  tears  that  were  starting  to  her  eyes,  fo/ 
she  had  too  much  pride  to  allow  her  to  see  them  fall. 

After  old  Mrs.  Hall  retired,  she  sat  for  a moment  or 
two,  recalling  her  words.  “‘Babyish,’  to  love  my  own 
dear  home,  where  I was  as  merry  as  a cricket  from  morn- 
ing till  night ; where  we  all  sang,  and  played,  and  read, 
in  mother’s  dear  old  room,  and  father  and  mother  the 
happiest  of  us  all  ‘ babyish  ! ’ I won’t  be  dictated  to  ! ” 
said  the  young  wife.  “ I ’m  married  if  I am  only  nine- 
teen, and  my  own  mistress;”  and  the  rebellious  tones 
would  come  in  spite  of  her  determination.  But  then  she 
thought  of  Harry, — dear  Harry, — whom  she  had  already 
learned  to  love  so  well.  Her  first  impulse  was,  to  tell 
him.  But  she  had  a great  deal  of  good  sense,  if  she  was 
young  ; and  she  said  to  herself,  “ No,  that  won’t  do  ; — 
then  he  ’ll  have  to  take  sides  with  one  or  the  other,  and 
either  way  it  will  make  trouble.  It  may  wean  his  love 
from  me,  too.  No,  no,  I ’ll  try  to  get  along  without ; but 
I wish  I had  known  more  about  her,  before  I came  hero 
to  live.” 

And  so  she  smiled  and  chatted  gayly  with  Harry,  and 
hoped  he  had  set  it  down  to  the  account  of  “ nervous- 
ness.” Still  the  hours  passed  slowly,  when  he  was  absent 
at  his  business ; and  she  felt  uneasy  every  time  she  heard 
a step  on  the  stairs,  lest  the  old  lady  should  subject  her 
to  some  new  trial. 

“ I wonder  what  has  come  over  our  Emma  ? ” said  one 


SELF-CONQUEST. 


29 


of  her  sisters;  “ she  has  grown  so  grave  and  matronly.  L 
half-hated  Harry  when  he  carried  her  off,  and  I quite 
hate  him  now,  for  she ’s  so  sedate  and  moping.  I desire 
to  keep  my  neck  out  of  the  matrimonial  noose.’ 

Shortly  after  this,  Emma’s  mother  sent  her  some  little 
delicacy,  manufactured  by  herself,  of  which  she  knew  her 
daughter  to  be  particularly  fond.  Mrs.  Hall  brought  it  into 
her  room,  and  set  it  down  on  the  table  as  if  she  were 
testing  the  strength  of  the  dish,  and  said,  “ I wonder  if 
your  mother  is  afraid  you  ’ll  not  have  enough  to  eat  here. 
One  would  think  you  were  a child  at  a boarding-school.” 

Emma  controlled  herself  by  a strong  effort,  and  made 
her  no  reply,  simply  taking  the  gift  from  her  hands,  with 
a nod  of  acknowledgment.  Every  day  brought  her  some 
such  petty  annoyance ; and  her  father-in-law,  who  was 
old  and  childish,  being  quite  as  troublesome  as  his  wife 
in  these  respects,  it  required  all  Emma’s  love  for  Harry 
to  carry  her  through. 

She  still  adhered  to  her  determination,  however,  to 
conceal  her  trouble  from  her  husband ; and  though  he 
noticed  she  was  less  vivacious,  perhaps  he  thought  the 
mantle  of  matronly  dignity  so  becoming  to  his  young  wife, 
that  he  felt  no  disposition  to  find  fault  with  it.  In  the 
mean  time,  old  Mrs.  Hall  being  confined  to  her  room  with 
a violent  influenza,  the  reins  of  government  were  very 
unwillingly  resigned  into  Emma’s  hands.  What  endless 
charges  she  received  about  the  dusting  and  sweeping,  and 


80 


S E L F - 0 0 N U U is  S T . 


cooking,  ending  always  with  this  soliloquy,  as  the  dooi 
closed  upon  Emma’s  retreating  form,  “ I am  a goose  to 
tell  her  anything  about  it.  She ’s  as  ignorant  as  a Hot- 
tentot,— it  will  all  go  in  one  ear,  and  out  the  other.” 
And  the  old  lady  groaned  in  spirit,  as  the  vision  of  the 
nose  of  the  tea-kettle  pointing  the  wrong  way,  or  the 
sauce-pan  hung  on  the  wrong  nail,  flitted  through  her 
mind.  Emma  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to  please 
her ; but  the  gruel  was  always  “ not  quite  right,”  the 
pillows  not  arranged  easily  behind  her  back,  or  she  ex- 
pected to  find  “ Bedlam  let  loose”  when  she  got  down 
stairs,  and  various  other  encouraging  prognostications  of 
the  same  character. 

“ Emma,”  said  Harry,  “how  should  you  like  living  five 
miles  out  of  the  city  ? I have  seen  a place  that  just  suits 
my  fancy,  and  I think  of  hiring  it  on  trial.” 

Emma  hesitated.  She  wished  to  ask,  “Does  your 
mother  go  with  us  ? ” but  she  only  said,  “ I could  not 
te”  dear  Harry,  how  I should  like  the  place,  till  1 saw 
it  but  I should  fear  it  would  take  you  too  much  from 
me.  It  would  seem  so  odd  to  have  five  miles’  distance 
between  us  for  the  whole  day.  0,  I ’m  very  sure  I 
should  n’t  like  it,  Harry ! ” and  the  thought  of  her  mother- 
in-law  clouded  her  sunny  face,  and,  in  spite  of  herself  a 
tear  dropped  on  her  husband’s  hand. 

“ Well,  dear  Emma,  now  I ’m  very  sure  you  will  like 
it,”  — and  his  large,  dark  eyes  had  a look  she  did  not 


S E L F - C 0 N Q D E S T . 3 'i 

quite  understand,  even  with  all  her  skill  and  practice  in 
reading  them,  — “and  so  I’m  going  to  drive  you  out 
there  this  very  afternoon,  and  we  ’ll  see,”  said  he,  gayly 
kissing  her  forehead. 

“ 0,  what  a little  Paradise,  Harry  I Look  at  that 
cluster  of  prairie  roses  ! What  splendid  old  trees  ! See 
how  the  wind  sweeps  the  drooping  branches  across  the 
tall  grass ! And  that  little,  low  window,  latticed  over 
with  sweet  briar ; and  that  pretty  terraced  flower-garden, 
— 0,  Harry  ! ” 

“Well,  let  us  go  inside,  Emma and,  applying  a key 
he  held  in  his  hand,  the  door  yielded  to  his  touch,  and 
they  stood  side  by  side  in  a little  rustic  parlor,  furnished 
simply,  yet  so  tastefully.  Tables,  stands,  and  mantel, 
covered  with  vases,  sending  forth  fragrance  from  the 
sweetest  of  wild-wood  flowers ; the  long,  white  muslin 
curtains,  looped  away  from  a window,  whence  could  be 
seen  wooded  hill,  and  fertile  valley,  and  silvery  stream. 
Then  they  ascended  into  the  old  chamber,  which  was 
quite  as  unexceptionable  in  its  appointments.  Emma 
looked  about  in  bewildered  wonder. 

“ But  who  lives  here  now,  Harry  ? ” 

“ Nobody.” 

“ Nobody  ? WTiat  a tease  you  are ! To  whom  does  all 
this  furniture  belong,  — and  who  arranged  everything 
with  such  exquisite  taste  ? I have  been  expecting  every 
minute  to  see  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  step  out.” 


32 


SELF-CONQUEST. 


“ Well,  there  she  is,”  said  Harry,  leading  her  gayly  up 
to  the  looking-glass.  “ I only  hope  you  admire  her  half 
as  much  as  I do.  Do  you  think  I ’ve  been  blind  ana 
deaf,  because  I ’ve  been  dumb  ? Do  you  think  I ’ve  not 
seen  my  high-spirited  little  wife,  struggling  with  trial, 
day  by  day,  suffering,  enduring,  gaining  the  victory  ovei 
her  own  spirit,  silently  and  uncomplainingly  ? Do  you 
think  I could  see  all  this,  and  not  think  she  was  the 
dearest  little  wife  in  the" world  ? ” and  tears  and  smiles 
struggled  for  mastery,  as  he  pressed  his  lips  to  her  fore- 
head. “ And  now  you  will  have  nobody  to  please  here, 
but  me,  Emma.  Do  you  think  the  task  will  be  difficult  ? ” 
The  answer,  though  highly  satisfactory  to  the  husband 
was  not  intended  for  you,  dear  re«/i«r ; m ejccnse 

Viuuijr  Fern. 


“OUR  HATTY.^’ 


Sue  miglit  have  had  twenty  other  names,  but  that  was 
the  only  appellation  I ever  heard.  It  was,  “ Get  out 
of  the  way,  Hatty  ! ” — ‘‘I  dare  say,  Hatty  broke  that 
vase,  or  lost  that  book  ! ’’  — “ Don’t  come  here ; what  a 
fright  you  are,  Hatty  ! ” till  the  poor,  sensitive  child 
almost  felt  as  if  she  had  the  mark  of  Cain  upon  her  fore^ 
head.  She  had  brothers  and  sisters,  but  they  wer^* 
bright,  and  saucy,  and  bold,  and  cunning ; and,  whe 
they  wished  to  carry  out  a favorite  scheme,  could  throw 
their  arms  about  the  parental  neck,  flatter  some  weak 
side,  carry  the  day,  and  then  laugh  at  their  juvenile 
foresight ; so  their  coffers  were  always  filled,  while  poor 
Hatty’s  was  empty ; — and  she  laid  all  these  things  up  in 
her  little  grieved  heart,  and,  as  she  saw  duplicity  better 
rewarded  than  sincerity,  began  to  have  little  infidel 
doubts  whether  the  Bible,  that  her  father  read  so  much 
out  of,  was  really  true;  while  Joseph’s  coat  of  many 
colors  ” flaunted  ever  before  her  tearful  eyes  ! All  her 
sweet,  childish  impulses  were  checked  and  crushed  ; and, 
where  the  sweet  flowers  of  love  and  confidence  should 
have  sprung  up,  the  weeds  of  distrust  and  suspicion  took 
bitter  root ! 


34 


“OUR  HATTY. 


She  took  no  part  in  the  conversation  of  the  domestic 
circle.  “ She  was  stupid,”  so  they  told  her ; and  she  had 
heard  it  till  she  believed  it  true.  Sometimes,  as  was 
often  the  case,  some  talented  person  made  part  of  the 
family  circle ; on  such  occasions,  Hatty  would  listen  in 
her  corner  till  her  great,  wild  eyes  glowed  and  burned 
like  living  coals  of  fire.  But  there  was  one  spot  where 
none  disputed  Hatty’s  right  to  reign,  — a little  lonely 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  which  she  had  fitted  up  in 
her  own  wild  way,  and  where  she  was  free  from  reproof 
or  intrusion. 

You  should  have  seen  her  there, — with  her  little  yearn- 
ing heart  half  broken  by  neglect,  — doubtful  of  her  own 
powers,  and  weeping  such  passionate  tears,  that  she  was 
“so  stupid,  and  ugly,  and  disagreeable,”  that  nobody 
could  ever  love  her  ! And  so  she  made  friends  with  the 
holy  stars,  the  fleecy  clouds,  and  the  brilliant  rainbow, 
the  silver  moonbeam,  and  the  swift  lightning;  and  an 
artistic  eye,  seeing  her  soul-lit  face  at  that  small  window, 
might  have  fancied  her  some  Italian  improvisatrice ! 
There,  the  fetters  fell  off,  the  soul  was  free,  and  the 
countenance  mirrored  it  forth.  Back  in  the  family  circle, 
she  was  again  “ Our  Hatty  ! ” 

“ That  young  daughter  of  yours  differs  very  much  from 
the  rest  of  the  family,  Mr.  Lee,”  said  a maiden  lady,  whd 
was  visiting  there. 


OUR  HATTY. 


35 


fes,  yes!’’  said  the  old  man,  with  a shrug.  “She 
don’t  look  much  like  a Lee ; in  fact,  she ’s  very  plain. 
She ’s  a strange,  unaccountable  child,  — likes  her  own 
company  better  than  anybody’s  else,  and  don’t  care  a 
rush-light  for  all  the  nick-nacks  other  girls  are  teasing 
for.  Sometimes  I think  she  belongs  to  another  brood,  — 
got  changed  in  the  cradle,  or  something.” 

“ How  does  she  spend  her  time  ? ” said  Miss  Tabe 
fcha. 

“ I ’m  sure  I don’t  know.  Wife  says  she  has  a little 
den  at  the  top  of  the  house,  where  she  sits  star-gazing. 
Queer  child,  that  Hatty!  — plain  as  a pike-staff;”  anr' 
Mr.  Lee  took  up  his  newspaper,  and  put  his  feet  on  the 
mantel. 

Miss  Tabetha  was  confounded ! She  had  an  uncom- 
monly warm  heart,  for  an  old  maid.  She  had  never 
been  a parent ; — she  wished  she  had,  just  to  show  some 
people  what  a nice  one  she ’d  have  made  ! She  inwardly 
resolved  to  know  more  of  “ Our  Hatty.” 

Rap,  tap,  on  the  door  of  Hatty’s  little  dei*  - what  on 
earth  did  it  mean  ? She  hoped  they  were  ^.ot  going  to 
take  that  away  from  her ; and,  with  a guilty,  frightened 
look,  she  opened  the  door. 

Miss  Tabetha  entered. 

“ Are  you  vexed  with  me  for  coming  here,  child  ? You 
don’t  look  glad  to  see  me.” 

“ No,  no  ! ” said  Hatty,  pushing  back  a tangled  mass 


86 


“OUR  HATTy.' 


of  dark  hair ; but  it ’s  so  odd  you  should  want  to 
come.  Nobody  ever  wanted  to  see  me  before.’’ 

“ And  why  not,  Hatty  ? ” 

“Well,  I don’t  know,”  said  she,  with  touching  meek 
ness  and  simplicity  ; “ unless  it ’s  because  I ’m  < stupid, 
and  ugly,  and  disagreeable.’  ” 

“Who  told  you  that,  Hatty  ?” 

“All  of  them  down  stairs,”  said  she;  “and  I don’t 
care  about  it,  only  — only,”  — and  the  tears  rolled  down 
lier  cheeks,  — “ it  is  so  dreadfiil  to  feel  that  nobody  can 
ever  love  me  ! ” 

Miss  Tabetha  said,  “ Humph  ! ” 

“ Hatty,”  said  she,  “ come  here.  Do  you  ever  look  in 
the  glass  ? ” 

“ Not  since  a long  while,”  said  the  young  girl,  shrink 
ing  back. 

“ Come  here,  and  look  in  this  little  mirror.  Do  you 
see  those  large,  dark,  bright  eyes  of  yours  ? Do  you  see 
that  wealth  of  raven  hair,  which  a skilful  hand  might 
render  a beauty,  instead  of  that  tangled  deformity  ? Do 
you  see  those  lithe,  supple  limbs,  which  a little  care  and 
training  might  render  graceful  as  the  swaying  willow  ? 
There  is  intellect  on  your  brow ; soul  in  your  eyes  ; your 
voice  has  a thrilling  heart-tone.  Hatty,  you  are  a gem 
in  the  rough! — you  cannot  be  ‘ugly;*  but,  listen  to  me. 
It  is  every  woman’s  duty  to  be  lovely  and  attractive. 
V'ou  have  underrated  and  neglected  yourself,  my  poor 


“OUR  HATTY. 


37 


child.  Nature  has  been  no  niggard  to  you.  I do  not 
say  this  to  make  you  vain,  but  to  inspire  you  with  a 
proper  confidence  in  yourself.  But  — what  have  we 
nere  ? ” as  a large  portfolio  fell  at  her  feet. 

“ 0,  Miss  Tabetha,  please  don’t ! It ’s  only  a little 
scribbling,  just  when  I felt  wretched  ! — please  don’t ! ” 

“ Yes,  but  I shall,  though.  It ’s  just  what  I want  to 
see  most and  she  went  on  reading  paper  after  paper, 
while  Hatty  stood  like  a culprit  before  her.  When  she 
had  finished,  she  said,  very  slowly  and  deliberately  : 

“ Hatty,  come  here  ! Did  you  know  that  you  were  a 
genius  ? ” 

“ A what.  Miss  Tabetha  ? ” 

“ A genius,  you  delicious  little  bit  of  simplicity,  — a 
genius  ! You  ’ll  know  fast  enough  what  it  means ; and 
to  think  I should  have  been  the  first  to  find  it  out ! ” and 
she  caught  the  astonished  child  in  her  arms,  and  kissed 
her,  till  Hatty  thought  a genius  must  be  the  most  delight- 
ful thing  in  the  world,  to  bring  so  much  love  with  it. 

“ Look  here,  Hatty, — does  anybody  know  this  ?”  hold- 
ing up  the  manuscripts. 

Hatty  shook  her  head. 

“ So  much  the  better.  * Stupid,  ugly  and  disagree- 
able ! ’ humph ! Do  you  know  I ’m  going  to  run  off  with 
you  ? ” said  the  little  old  maid.  “We  shall  see  what 
we  shall  see,  Miss  Hatty  ! ” 


88 


0 U R H A T T Y 

Five  years  had  roUed  away.  A new  life  had  been 
opened  to  Hatty.  She  had  grown  into  a tall,  graceful 
woman.  Her  step  was  light  as  a fawn’s.  Her  face,  — 
not  beautiful,  certainly,  if  tried  by  the  rules  of  art, — and 
yet,  who  that  watched  its  ever- varying  expression,  would 
stop  to  criticize  ? No  one  cared  to  analyze  the  charm. 
She  produced  the  effect  of  bfeauty ; she  was  magnetic ; 
she  was  fascinating.  Miss  Tabetha  was  satisfied;  — “she 
knew  it  would  be  just  so.” 

They  had  almost  forgotten  her  at  Lee  house.  Once 
in  a while  they  wondered  “ if  Miss  Tabetha  was  n’t  tired 
of  her.”  Miss  Tabetha  thought  she  would  let  them  know! 
Unbounded  was  their  amazement,  when  Miss  Tabetha 
ushered  “ Our  Hatty  ” in.  It  was  unaccountable  ! She 
was  really  “ almost  pretty  ! ” Still  there  was  the  same 
want  of  heart  in  their  manner  to  her ; and  the  little  old 
maid  could  not  have  kept  within  bounds,  had  she  not  haa 
powerful  reasons  of  her  own  for  keeping  quiet  awhile. 

“ By  the  way.  Miss  Tabetha,”  said  Mr.  Lee,  “ as  you 
are  a blue-stocking,  can  you  enlighten  me  as  to  the  author 
of  that  charming  little  volume  of  poems,  which  has  set  all 
the  literary  world  astir  ? It  is  n’t  often  I get  upon  stilts 
but  I ’d  give  something  to  see  the  woman  who  wrote  it.” 

Miss  Tabetha’s  time  had  come.  Her  eyes  twinkled 
with  malicious  delight.  She  handed  him  a volume,  say- 
ing, “ Well,  here  is  a book  I was  commissioned  to  give 
vou  by  the  authoress  herself.” 


“OUR  HATTY 


89 


Mr.  Lee  rubbed  his  glasses,  set  them  astride  his  nose, 
and  read  the  following  on  the  fly-leaf : 

“ To  my  dear  father,  James  Lee  ; from  his  afPectionate 
daughter.  The  Author.” 

Mr.  Lee  sprang  from  his  chair,  and,  seizing  his  child 
by  both  hands,  ejaculated,  “ Hatty  Lee  ! I ’m  proud  of 
you ! ” 

Tears  gathered  slowly  in  her  large  eyes,  as  she  said 
“ 0,  not  that ! Dear  father,  fold  me  once  to  your  heart, 
and  say,  ‘ Hatty,  1 love  you  ! ’ ” 

Her  head  sank  upon  his  shoulder.  The  old  man  reaa 
his  child’s  heart  at  last ; he  saw  it  all,  — all  her  childish 
unhappiness,  — and,  as  he  kissed  her  brow,  and  cheek, 
and  lips,  said,  in  a choking  voice,  “Forgive  your  old 
father,  Hatty ! ” 

Her  hand  was  laid  upon  his  lips,  while  smiles  and  tears 
chased  over  her  face,  like  sunshine  and  shadow  over  an 
April  sky. 

0,  what  is  Fame  to  a woman  ? Like  the  “ apples  of 
the  Dead  Sea,”  fair  to  the  sight,  ashes  to  the  touch  ! 
From  the  depths  of  her  unsatisfied  heart,  cometh  ever  a 
voico  that  will  not  be  hushed,  — Take  it  all  back,  only 
give  me  love  ! 


TWO  IN  HEAVEN. 


“You  have  two  children/^  said  I. 

“ I kave  four,’’  was  the  reply ; “ two  on  earth,  two  in 
heaven.” 

There  spoke  the  mother ! Still  hers,  only  “ gone 
t/efore  ! ” Still  remembered,  loved  and  cherished,  by  the 
aearth  and  at  the  board  ; — their  places  not  yet  filled  ; 
even  though  their  successors  draw  life  from  the  same 
faithful  breast  where  their  dying  heads  were  pillowed. 

“ Two  in  heaven  ! ’* 

Safely  housed  from  storm  and  tempest.  No  sickness 
there,  nor  drooping  head,  nor  fading  eye,  nor  weary  feet. 
By  the  green  pastures,  tended  by  the  good  Shepherd, 
linger  the  little  lambs  of  the  heavenly  fold. 

“ Two  in  heaven  ! ” 

Earth  less  attractive.  Eternity  nearer.  Invisible 
oords,  drawing  the  maternal  soul  upwards.  “ Still 
small  ” voices,  ever  whispering.  Come ! to  the  world 
weary  spirit. 

“ Two  ui  heaven  ! ” 

Mother  of  angels!  Walk  softly!  — holy  eyes  watch 
thy  fo  jtsteps  ! — cherub  forms  bend  to  listen  ! Keep  thy 
spirit  free  from  earth  taint ; so  shalt  thou  “ go  to  them,” 
though  “ they  may  not  return  to  thee  ! ” 


‘‘SUMMER  DAYS;’ 

OR,  THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  AFFLICTION. 

A DELIGHTFUL  Summer  we  passed,  to  be  sure,  at  tno 

Hotel,  in  the  quiet  village  of  S . A collection 

of  prettier  women,  or  more  gentlemanly,  agreeable  men, 
were  never  thrown  together  by  the  necessity  of  seeking 
country  quarters  in  the  dog-days.  Fashion,  by  common 
consent,  was  laid  upon  the  shelf,  and  comfort  and  smiling 
faces  were  the  natural  result.  Husbands  took  the  cars 
in  the  morning  for  the  city,  rejoicing  in  linen  coats 
and  pants,  and  loose  neck-ties  ; while  their  wives  were 
equally  independent  till  their  return,  in  flowing  muslin 
wrappers,  not  too  dainty  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  little 
climbing  feet,  fresh  from  the  meadow  or  wildwood. 

There  were  no  separate  “ cliques  ” or  “ sets.”  Nobody 
knew,  or  inquired,  or  cared,  whether  your  great  grand- 
father had  his  horse  shod,  or  shod  horses  for  other  peo- 
ple. The  ladies  were  not  afraid  of  smutting  their  fin- 
gers, or  their  reputation,  if  they  washed  their  children’s 
faces  ; and  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  fasten  the 
door,  and  close  the  blinds,  when  they  replaced  a missing 
button  on  their  husband’s  waistband,  or  mended  a ragged 
frock- 


^2 


SUMMER  days;  OK, 


Plenty  of  fruit,  plenty  of  fresh,  sweet  air,  plenty  of 
children,  and  plenty  of  room  for  them  to  play  in.  A 
short  nap  in  the  afternoon,  a little  additional  care  in 
arranging  tumbled  ringlets,  and  in  girdling  a fresh  robe 
round  the  waist,  and  they  were  all  seated,  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  on  the  long  piazza,  smiling,  happy,  and 
expectant,  as  the  car  bell  announced  the  return  of  their 
liege  lords  from  the  dusty,  heated  city.  It  was  delightful 
to  see  their  business  faces  brighten  up,  as  each  fair  wife 
came  forward,  and  relieved  them  from  the  little  parcels 
and  newspapers  they  carried  in  their  hands,  and  smiled  a 
welcome,  sweet  as  the  cool,  fresh  air  that  fanned  their 
heated  foreheads.  A cool  bath,  a clean  dickey,  and  they 
were  presentable  at  the  supper-table,  where  merry  jokes 
flew  round,  and  city,  news  was  discussed  between  the  fra- 
grant cups  of  tea,  and  each  man  fell  in  love  with  his 
pretty  wife  over  again,  — or  his  neighbor’s,  if  he  liked  ! 

It  was  one  harmonious,  happy  family  ! Mrs. and 

her  husband  were  the  prime  ministers  of  fiin  and  frolic 
in  the  establishment.  It  was  she  who  concocted  all  the 
games,  and  charades,  and  addles,  that  sent  our  merry 
shouts  ringing  far  and  wid?e,  as  we  sat  in  the  evening  on 
the  long,  moonlit  piazza.  It  was  she  who  planned  the 
pic-nics  and  sails,  and  drives  in  the  old  hay-cart ; the 
berry  parties,  and  romps  on  the  green ; and  the  little 
cosey  suppers  in  the  back  parlor,  just  before  bed-time, 
that  nobody  but  herself  could  have  coaxed  out  of  the 


THE  yOUNG  wife’s  AFFLICTION. 


48 


fussy  old  landlord.  It  was  she  who  salted  our  coftee  and 
sugared  our  toast ; it  was  she  who  made  puns  for  us,  and 
wrote  verses ; it  was  she  who  sewed  up  pockets  in  over- 
coats, or  stole  cigars,  or  dipped  the  ends  in  water  ; it  was 
she  who  nursed  all  the  sick  children  in  the  house  ; it  was 
she  who  cut  out  frocks,  and  pinafores,  and  caps  for  un- 
skilful mothers ; it  was  she  who  was  here,  and  there,  and 
everywhere,  the  embodiment  of  mischief,  and  fun,  and 
kindness ; and  as  she  flew  past  her  handsome  husband, 
with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  cent  upon  some  new  prank, 
he  would  look  after  her  with  a proud,  happy  smile,  more 
eloquent  than  words. 

He  was  the  handsomest  man  I ever  saw  — tall,  com- 
manding and  elegant,  with  dark  blue  eyes,  a profusion 
of  curling  black  hair,  glittering  white  teeth,  and  a form 
like  Apollo’s.  Mary  was  so  proud  of  him ! She  would 
always  watch  his  eye  when  she  meditated  any  little  piece 
of  roguery,  and  it  was  discontinued  or  perfected  as  she 
read  its  language.  He  was  just  the  man  to  appreciate 
her, — to  understand  her  sensitive,  enthusiastic  nature,  — 
to  know  when  to  check,  when  to  encourage  ; and  it  needed 
but  a word,  a look ; for  her  whole  soul  went  out  to  him. 

And  so  the  bright  summer  days  sped  fleetly  on ; and 
now  autumn  had  come,  with  its  gorgeous  beauty,  ana 
no  one  had  courage  to  speak  of  breaking  up  our  happy 
circle ; but  ah,  there  came  one  with  stealthy  steps,  who 
had  no  such  scruples ! 


44 


SUMMER  days;  or, 


* 

I'he  merry  shout  of  the  children  is  hushed  in  the  wide 
halls  ; anxious  faces  are  grouped  on  the  piazza ; for  in  a 
\arkened  room  above  lies  Mary^s  princely  husband,  delir- 
ious with  fever  ! The  smile  has  fled  her  lip,  the  rose  her 
cheek ; her  eye  is  humid  with  tears  that  never  fall ; day 
and  night,  without  sleep  or  food,  she  keeps  untiring  vigil ; 
while,  — unconscious  of  her  presence,  — in  tones  that 
pierce  her  heart,  he  calls  unceasingly  for  “ my  wife ! ” 
She  puts  back  the  tangled  masses  of  dark  hair  from  his 
heated  forehead ; she  passes  her  little  hand  coaxingly  over 
it ; she  hears  not  the  advice  of  the  physician,  “ to  procure 
a nurse.”  She  fears  not  to  be  alone  with  him  when  he 
is  raving.  She  tells  no  one  that  on  her  delicate  breast 
she  bears  the  impress  of  an  (almost)  deadly  blow  from  the 
nand  that  was  never  before  raised  but  to  bless  her.  And 
now  the  physician,  who  has  come  once,  twice,  thrice  a day 
from  the  city,  tells  the  anxious  groups  in  the  hall  that  his 
patient  must  die.  Not  one  dare  break  the  news  to  the 
wretched  Mary ! There  is  little  need ! She  has  gazed  in 
their  faces,  with  a keen,  agonized  earnestness;  she  has 
asked  no  question,  but  she  knows  it  all ; and  her  heart  is 
dying  within  her ! No  entreaty,  no  persuasion,  can  draw 
her  from  the  bedside. 

The  old  doctor,  with  tearful  eyes,  passes  his  arm 
round  her  trembling  form,  and  says,  “ My  child,  you  can 
not  meet  the  next  hour  — leave  him  with  me 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE  S AFFLICTION. 


45 


A mournful  shake  of  the  head  is  her  only  answer,  as 
slie  takes  her  seat  again  by  her  husband,  and  presses  her 
forehead  low  upon  that  clammy  hand,  praying  God  that 
she  may  die  with  him. 

An  hour  of  time  — an  eternity  of  agony  — has  passed 
A fainting,  unresisting  form  is  borne  from  that  chamber 
of  death. 

Beautiful,  as  a piece  of  rare  sculpture,  lies  the  hus- 
band ! — no  traces  of  pain  on  lip  or  brow ; the  long, 
heavy  lashes  lay  upon  the  marble  cheek ; the  raven  locks, 
damp  with  the  dew  of  death,  clustered  profusely  round  the 
noble  forehead  ; those  chiselled  lips  are  gloriously  beauti- 
ful in  their  repose  ! Tears  fall  like  rain  from  kindly  eyes 
servants  pass  to  and  fro,  respectfully,  with  measured 
tread ; kind  hands  are  busy  with  vain  attempts  to  restore 
animation  to  the  fainting  wife.  0,  that  bitter,  bitter, 
waking  ! — for  she  does  wake.  God  pity  her ! 

Her  hand  is  passed  slowly  across  her  forehead ; she 
remembers  — she  is  a widow ! She  looks  about  the  room 
— there  is  his  hat,  his  coat,  his  cane  ; and  now,  indeed, 
she  throws  herself,  with  a burst  of  passionate  grief,  into 
the  arms  of  the  old  physician,  who  says,  betwixt  a tear  and 
a smile,  “ Now,  God  be  praised,  — she  weeps  ! 

And  so,  with  the  falling  leaves  of  autumn,  “ the  Great 
Reaper  ” gathered  in  our  noble  friend.  Why  should  ] 
dwell  on  the  agony  of  the  gentle  wife ; or  tell  of  her  re- 
turn to  her  desolate  home  in  the  city ; of  the  disposal  of 


46 


8UMMEK  DA  YU. 


the  rare  pictures  and  statuary  collected  to  grace  its  walla 
by  the  refined  taste  of  its  proprietor ; of  the  necessary 
disposal  of  every  article  of  luxury ; of  her  removal  to 
plain  lodgings,  where  curious  people  speculated  upon  hei 
history,  and  marked  her  moistened  eyes;  of  the  long, 
Interminable,  wretched  days ; of  the  wakeful  nights,  when 
she  lay  with  her  cheek  pressed  against  the  sweet,  father* 
less  child  of  her  love ; of  her  untiring  efforts  to  seek  an 
honorable,  independent  support  ? It  is  but  an  every-day 
history,  but  — God  knows  — its  crushing  weight  of  agony 
is  none  the  less  keenly  felt  by  the  sufferer  ! 


COMFORT  FOR  THE  WII>OW 


A LITTLE  fatherless  boy,  four  years  of  age,  sat  upoD 
the  floor,  surrounded  by  his  toys.  Catching  sight  of  his 
mother’s  face,  as  the  tears  fell  thick  and  fast,  he  sprang 
to  her  side,  and  peeping  curiously  in  her  face,  as  he  put 
nis  little  hand  in  hers,  said  — “ You ’ve  got  me ! ’* 
Simple,  artless  little  comforter  ! Dry  your  tears,  young 
mother.  There  is  something  left  to  live  for ; there  are 
duties  from  which  even  your  bleeding  heart  may  not 
shrink ! “ A talent  ” you  may  not  “ bury ; ” a steward- 

ship, of  whi©h  your  Lord  must  receive  an  account;  a 
blank  page  to  be  filled  by  your  hand  with  holy  truth ; a 
crystal  vase  to  keep  spotless  and  pure ; a tender  plant, 
to  gutiid  from  blight  and  mildew ; a dew-drop  that  must 
not  exhale  in  the  sun  of  worldliness ; an  angel,  for  whom 
a “ white  robe  ” must  be  made ; a cherub,  in  whose  hands 
a “ golden  harp  ” must  be  placed ; a little  “ lamb,”  to  bo 
ed  to  the  “ Good  Shepherd  ! ” 

“ You ’ve  got  me  ! ” Ay  ! Cloud  not  his  sunny  face 
with  unavailing  sadness,  lest  he  catch  the  trick  of  grief,” 
and  sigh  amid  his  toys.  Teach  him  not,  by  your  vain  re- 
pinings,  that  “ our  Father  ” pitieth  not  his  children  ; teach 


C 0 M F 0 K T FOR  THE  Vi  OW  , 

hiiu  to  love  Him,  as  seen  in  the  sky  and  sea,  in  rock  and 
river ; teach  him  to  love  Him  in  the  cloud  as  in  the  sun- 
shine ! You  will  have  your  gloomy  hours;  there  is  a 
void  even  that  little  loving  heart  may  not  fill,  but  there  is 
still  another,  and  He  says,  “Me  ve  have  alwayp/’ 


THORNS  FOR  THE  ROSE. 


‘ It  will  be  very  ridiculous  in  you,  Rose,  to  refuse  to 
give  up  that  child,”  said  a dark-looking  man  to  the 
pretty  widow  Grey.  “ Think  what  a relief  it  will  be,  to 
have  one  of  your  children  taken  off  your  hands.  It  costs 
something  to  live  now-a-days,” — and  Uncle  Ralph  scowled 
portentously,  and  pushed  his  purse  farther  down  in  his 
coat-pocket, — “ and  you  know  you  have  another  mouth  to 
feed.  They  T1  educate  her,  clothe  and  feed  her,  and — ” 
“Yes,”  said  the  impetuous,  warm-hearted  mother, 
rising  quickly  from  her  chair,  and  setting  her  little  feet 
down  in  a very  determined  manner  upon  the  floor,  while 
a bright  flush  passed  over  her  cheek,  — “ yes,  Ralph,  and 
teach  her  to  forget  and  disrespect  her  mother  ! ” 

“ Pshaw,  Rose,  how  absurd  ! She  T1  outgrow  all  that 
when  she  gets  to  be  a woman,  even  if  they  succeed  now. 
Would  you  stand  in  your  own  child’s  light  ? She  will  be 
an  heiress,  if  you  act  like  a sensible  woman  ; and,  if  you 
persist  in  refusing,  you  may  live  to  see  the  day  when  she 
will  reproach  you  for  it.” 

This  last  argument  carried  some  weight  with  it ; and 
Mrs.  Selden  sat  down  dejectedly,  and  folded  her  little 
C 4 


5U  THORNS  FOR  THE  ROSE. 

hands  in  her  lap.  She  had  not  thought  of  that.  She 
might  be  taken  away,  and  little  Kathleen  forced  to  toil 
for  daily  bread. 

Uncle  Ralph  saw  the  advantage  he  had  gained,  and 
determined  to  pursue  it,  — for  he  had  a great  horror  of 
being  obliged  eventually  to  provide  for  them  himself. 

“ Come,  Rose,  don’t  sit  there  looking  so  solemn ; put  it 
down,  now,  in  black  and  white,  and  send  off  the  letter, 
oefore  one  of  your  soft,  womanish  fits  comes  on  again,”  — 
and  he  pushed  a sheet  of  paper  toward  her,  with  pen  and 
ink. 

Just  then  the  door  burst  open,  and  little  Kathleen 
came  bounding  in  from  her  play,  bright  with  the  loveli- 
ness of  youth  and  health,  and  springing  into  her  mother’s 
lap,  and  clasping  her  neck,  frowned  from  beneath  her 
curls  at  Uncle  Ralph,  whom  she  suspected  somehow  or 
other  to  be  connected  with  the  tear-drop  that  was  trem- 
bling on  her  mother’s  long  eye-lashes. 

“ I can’t  do  it,  Ralph,”  said  the  young  widow,  clasping 
her  child  to  her  breast,  and  raining  tears  and  smiles 
enough  upon  her  to  make  a mental  rainbow. 

“ You  are  a fool ! ” said  the  vexed  man,  “ and  you’ll 
live  to  hear  somebody  there  tell  you  so,  I 'm  thinking ; ” 
and  he  slammed  the  door  in  a very  suggestive  manner,  as 
he  passed  out. 

Poor  Mrs.  Selden  ! Stunned  by  the  sudden  death  of  a 
husband  who  was  all  to  her  that  her  warm  heart  craved 


THORNS  FOR  THE  ROSE. 


51 


she  clung  the  more  closely  to  his  children.  No  woman 
ever  knew  better  than  Rose  Selden  the  undying  love  of  a 
mother.  The  offer  that  had  been  made  her  for  Kath- 
leen was  from  distant  relatives  of  her  husband  — of 
whom  she  knew  little,  except  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clair 
were  wealthy  and  childless,  and  had  found  a great  deo-l 
of  fault  with  her  husband’s  choice  of  a wife.  They  had 
once  made  her  a short  visit,  and,  somehow  or  other,  all  the 
time  they  were  there,  — - and  it  seemed  a little  eternity  to 
her  for  that  very  reason, — she  never  dared  to  creep  to  her 
husband’s  side,  or  slide  her  little  hand  in  his,  or  pass  it 
caressingly  over  his  broad  white  forehead,  or  run  into  the 
hall  for  a parting  kiss,  or  do  anything,  in  short,  save  tu 
sit  up  straight,  two  leagues  off,  and  be  proper  ! 

Now  you  may  be  sure  this  was  all  very  excruciating  to 
little  Mrs.  Rose,  who  was  verdant  enough  to  think  that 
husbands  were  intended  to  love,  and  who  owned  a heart 
quite  as  large  as  a little  woman  could  conveniently  carry 
about.  She  saw  nothing  on  earth  so  beautiful  as  those 
great  dark  eyes  of  his,  — especially  when  they  were  bent 
on  her,  — nor  heard  any  music  to  compare  with  that  deep, 
rich  voice;  and  though  she  had  been  married  many 
happy  years,  her  heart  leaped  at  the  sound  of  his  foot 
step  as  it  did  the  first  day  he  called  her  “ wife.’' 

Cared  “ the  Great  Reaper  ” for  that  ? Stayed  he  foi 
the  clasped  hands  of  entreaty,  or  the  scalding  tear  of 
agony  ^ Recked  he  that  not  one  silver  thread  mingled 


52 


THORNS  FOR  THE  ROSE 


in  the  dark  locks  of  the  strong  man  ? No ! by  the  desola* 
tion  of  that  widowed  heart,  no ! he  laid  his  icy  finger  on 
those  lips  of  love,  and  chilled  that  warm,  brave  heart,  and 
then  turned  coldly  away  to  seek  another  victim.  And 
Kose  pressed  his  children  to  her  heart,  with  a deeper 
love,  — a love  born  of  sorrow,  — and  said,  we  will  not 
part.  She  knew  that  fingers  that  never  toiled  before, 
must  toil  unceasingly  now.  She  knew,  when  her  heart 
was  sad,  there  was  no  broad  breast  to  lean  upon.  She 
had  already  seen  days  that  seemed  to  have  no  end,  drag^ 
ging  their  slow,  weary  length  along.  She  dared  not  go 
to  a drawer,  or  trunk,  or  escritoire,  lest  some  memento  of 
him  should  meet  her  eye.  She  struggled  bravely  through 
the  day  to  keep  back  the  tears,  for  her  children’s  sake ; 
but  night  came,  when  those  little,  restless  limbs  needed  a 
respite, — even  from  play, — when  the  little  prattling  voices 
were  hushed,  and  the  bright  eye  prisoned  beneath  its 
snowy  lid ; then,  indeed,  the  long  pent-up  grief,  held  in 
check  through  the  day  by  a mother’s  unselfish  love,  burst 
forth ; till,  exhausted  with  tearful  vigils,  she  would  creep, 
at  the  gray  dawn,  between  the  rosy  little  sleepers,  and, 
nestling  close  to  their  blooming  faces,  dream — Grod  knows 
how  mockingly  — of  happy  hours  that  would  never  come 
again. 

And  0 ! the  slow  torture  of  each  morning  waking ; the 
indistinct  recollection  of  something  dreadful;  the  hand 
drawn  slowly  across  the  aching  brow ; the  struggle  to 


iHORNS  FOR  Tni!,  ROSE 


53 


remember  ! Then,  — the  opening  eye,  the  unfamiliar 
objects,  the  strange,  new,  small  room ; nothing  home-like 
but  those  sleeping  orphans. 

God  help  the  widow ! 


" And  now,  as  if  her  cup  of  bitterness  were  not  full 
little  Kathleen  must  leave  her.  Must  it  be  ? She  paced 
the  room  that  night  after  Uncle  Ralph  had  left  her,  and 
thought  of  his  words,  “ She  may  live  to  tell  you  so.” 
Then  she  went  to  the  bed-side,  and  parted  the  clustering 
hair  from  Kathleen’s  forehead,  and  marked  with  a moth- 
er’s pride  the  sweet,  careless  grace  of  those  dimpled 
limbs,  and  noted  each  shining  curl.  There  were  the 
father’s  long  lashes,  his  brow,  his  straight,  classic  profile. 
0,  what  would  he  tell  her  ? And,  then,  old  memories  came 
back  with  a rushing  tide  that  swept  all  before  it ! Poor 
Rose ! 

Kathleen  stirs  uneasily,  and  calls  “ Mamma,”  and 
smiles  in  her  sleep.  0,  how  could  she  part  with  that 
little,  loving  heart  ? Countless  were  the  caresses  she 
received  from  her  every  hour.  Watchful  and  sensitive, 
she  noted  every  shade  of  sorrow  on  her  mother’s  face ; 
and,  by  a thousand  mute  remonstrances,  testified  her 
unspoken  sympathy.  That  LMe,  impulsive  heart  would 
be  cased  in  an  armor  of  frigidity  at  Olairville.  She 
might  be  sad,  or  sick,  or  dying,  and  Rose  shuddered  and 


54 


THORNS  FOR  I HE  ROSE. 


eat  still  nearer  to  her  child.  "V^Hiat  companionship  would 
she  have  ? what  moral  influence  exerted  ? Might  she  not 
even  be  weaned  from  the  heart  she  had  lain  beneath  ? 

Ah,  Uncle  Ralph ! you  little  knew,  as  you  sat  in  your 
office  the  next  morning,  and  folded  a little  slip  of  paper 
back  in  its  envelope,  upon  which  was  written  these  ^simple 
words,  “ Kathleen  shall  go,’^ — you  little  knew  at  what 
cost ! You  marked  not  the  blistered  paper  and  the 
unsteady  pen-marks,  as  you  smiled  satisfactorily,  and 
said,  “Very  concise  and  sensible,  for  a woman.” 

Uncle  Ralph  did  think  of  it  again  once,  as  he  walked 
home  to  his  dinner ; but  it  ws«s  only  to  congratulate  him- 
self that  if  Rose  should  be  unable  to  support  herself,  — 
which  he  doubted,  — there  would  be  one  less  for  him  to 
look  after ! As  to  a woman’s  tears,  — pshaw ! they  were 
always  crying  for  something;  if  it  wasn’t  for  that,  it 
would  be  something  else. 


We  will  pass  over  the  distressflil  parting  between 
mother  and  child.  The  little  trunk  was  duly  packed ; 
the  little  clasp  Bible  down  in  one  corner.  A book-mark, 
with  a lamb  embroidered  upon  it,  was  slipped  in  at  these 
words,  — “ Sufier  the  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and 
forbid  them  not.”  Mother’s  God  would  care  for  Kath- 
-een ; tk  jre  was  sweet  comfort  in  that. 

SO  Rose  choked  back  her  tears,  and  unclasped 


THORNS  FOR  THE  ROSl. 


55 


again  and  again  the  little  clinging  arms  from  her  neck, 
and  bade  her  sunny-haired  child  “ good-by ! ” and  laughed 
hysterically,  as  the  little  hand  waved  another,  and  a last 
adieu.  Even  Uncle  Ralph  felt  an  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion about  his  fifth  button,  gave  his  dickey  a nervous 
twitch,  and  looked  very  steadily  at  the  tops  of  the  oppo- 
site houses ! 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Two  months  had  passed!  Little  Kathleen  sat  very 
quiet  in  that  heated,  close  school -room.  There  was  a 
dark  shadow  under  her  eyes,  either  from  illness,  or  sor- 
row, and  her  face  was  very  pale.  Rose  had  written  to 
her,  but  the  letters  were  in  the  grave  of  Mrs.  Clair’s 
pockets,  never  to  be  resurrectionized ; so  Kathleen  was 
none  the  wiser  or  happier.  Uncle  Ralph  made  it  a 
principle  never  to  think  of  anything  that  impaired  his 
digestion ; so  he  dismissed  all  uneasy  thoughts  of,  or  care 
for,  his  niece,  and  made  no  inquiries ; because  he  was 
firmly  of  the  opinion,  that  “Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
’tis  folly  to  be  wise.” 

“ You  are  uncommonly  obtuse  about  your  lesson  this 
morning,”  said  Kathleen’s  tutor ; “ you  ’ve  told  me  twice 
that  France  was  bounded  south  by  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 
What  are  you  thinking  about  ? ” said  he,  as  he  grasped 
her  arm. 

“ Sir  ? ” said  little  Kathleen,  abstractedly. 


Ot)  THORNS  FOR  THE  ROSE. 

“ I say,  what  ails  you,  to  be  so  stupid  this  morning  ? *' 
«aid  the  vexed  pedagogue. 

‘‘  My  head  aches  badly,”  said  Kathleen ; “ and  — • 
and—” 

“ And  what  ? ” said  Mr.  Smith. 

“ And  — I — want  — to  see  — my  — mother ! ” said 
the  child,  with  a burst  of  tears. 

“Fiddlestick!”  said  the  amiable  Mr.  Smith;  “if  she 
cared  much  about  you,  I reckon  she  would  have  written 
to  you  before  now.  Mrs.  Clair  thinks  she ’s  married 
again,  or  something  of  that  sort ; so  don’t  worry  your  head 
for  nonsense.  How ’s  Fran^^  bounded,  hey  ? ” 

The  division  lines  osi  the  atlas  were  quite  concealed  by 
Kathleen’s  tears ; so  she  was  ordered  into  the  presence 
of  her  grim  relative,  who  coaxed  and  threatened  in  vain, 
and  finally  sent  her  to  bed. 

For  two  long,  weary  months  the  free,  glad  spirit  of  the 
child  had  been  fettered  and  cramped  at  Clairville.  No 
one  spoke  to  her  of  home,  or  her  mother ; or,  if  they 
chanced  to  mention  the  latter,  it  was  always  in  a slurring, 
sneering  manner,  more  painful  to  the  loving,  sensitive 
child  than  their  silence.  But  why  did  mamma  not  write  ? 
— that  was  the  only  wearing  thought  by  day  and  night. 
And  so  Kathleen  drooped,  and  lost  color  and  spirits,  and 
walked,  like  an  automaton,  up  and  down  the  stiff  garden- 
walks,  and  “ sat  up  straight,”  and  “ turned  out  her  toes,’' 
as  she  was  bid ; and  had  a quick,  frightened,  nervous 


THORNS  iOR  THE  RO^i^.  57 

manner,  as  if  she  were  constantly  in  fear  of  reproof  oj 
punishment. 

Bridget,’^  said  Mrs.  Clair,  “ how  is  Kathleen  ? get 
over  her  hysterics  ? I must  break  her  of  that.” 

“ Dear  heart,  no  ma’am  ! She ’s  just  fretting  the  sou^ 
out  of  her,  for  a sight  of  her  mother ; it ’s  nater,  I s’pose,” 
said  Bridget,  polishing  her  face  with  her  cho  ked  apron. 

Stuff,  Bridget ! The  child ’s  just  like  her  mother  ; 
and  that ’s  saying  enough ! However,  give  her  a little 
valerian,  and  sleep  at  the  side  of  her  bed  to-night.  I ’ll 
look  in,  in  the  morning,”  said  the  angular  lady,  as  she 
smoothed  out  her  dress  and  her  wrinkles. 

And  so  Bridget,  obedient  to  orders,  stretched  her  stout 
Irish  limbs  “ at  the  side  of  the  bed,”  though  she  might  as 
well  have  been  in  Ireland  as  there,  for  any  response  she 
made  to  that  plaintive  petition,  through  the  long  night, 
‘ 0,  do  call  my  mamma ! please  call  my  mamma ! ” 

And  so  night  passed ! and  the  golden  morning  light 
streamed  in  upon  the  waxen  face  of  little  Kathleen.  No 
breath  came  from  those  parted  lips;  no  ringlet  stirred 
with  life ; the  hands  lay  meekly  beside  her,  and  the  last 
tear  she  should  ever  shed  lay  glittering  like  a gem  upon 
her  cheek ! 

“ Balph,”  said  Mrs.  Seldon,  “ I shall  start  for  Clair- 
ville  to-morrow;  I can  stay  away  from  Kathleen  nc 
(Onger.” 

C* 


68 


THORNS  FOR  THIS  ROSE. 


“ You  ’ll  be  mad  if  you  do,”  said  Uncle  Ralph ; “ the 
child ’s  well  enough,  or  you  would  hear ; you  can’t  expect 
them  to  be  writing  all  the  time.  Your  welcome  will  be  a 
sorry  one,  I can  tell  you ; so  take  my  advice,  and  let  well 
alone.” 

Mrs.  Seldon  made  no  reply,  but  began  to  pack  her 
trunk,  and  Uncle  Ralph  left  the  house. 

In  about  an  hour’s  time  he  returned,  and  found  Rose 
trying,  in  vain,  to  clasp  the  lid  of  her  trunk. 

“Do  come  here,  Ralph,”  said  she,  without  looking 
up,  “ and  settle  this  refractory  lock.  Dear  little  Kath- 
leen ! I ’ve  crammed  so  many  traps  in  here  for  her.  How 
glad  she  will  be  to  see  me ! ” and  she  turned  and  looked 
up,  to  see  why  Ralph  did  n’t  answer. 

Brow,  cheek  and  lip  were  in  an  instant  blanched  to 
marble  paleness.  A mother’s  quick  eye  had  spared  his 
tongue  the  sad  tidings. 

If  you  visit  the  Lunatic  Asylum  at , you  will  see 

a very  beautiful  woman,  her  glossy  ringlets  slightly 
threaded  with  silver.  Day  after  day,  she  paces  up  and 
down  that  long  corridor,  and  says,  in  heart-rending  tones, 
to  every  one  she  meets,  “ 0,  do  call  my  mamma  ! won’t 
y^u  please  call  my  mamma  ! ” 


THANKSGIVING  STORY. 


“ Mary  ! ” said  the  younger  of  two  little  girh,  as 
they  nestled  under  a coarse  coverlid,  one  cold  night  in 
December,  “ tell  me  about  Thanksgiving-day  before  papa 
went  to  heaven.  I ’m  cold  and  hungry,  and  I can’t  go  to 
sleep ; — I want  something  nice  to  think  about.” 

“Hush ! ” said  the  elder  child,  “ don’t  let  dear  mamma 
hear  you  ; come  nearer  to  me  ; ” — and  they  laid  their 
cheeks  together. 

“ I fancy  papa  was  rich.  We  lived  in  a very  nice 
house.  I know  there  were  pretty  pictures  on  the  wall ; 
and  there  were  nice  velvet  chairs,  and  the  carpet  was 
thick  and  soft,  like  the  green  moss-patches  in  the  wood ; 
— and  we  had  pretty  gold-fish  on  the  side-table,  and 
Tony,  my  black  nurse,  used  to  feed  them.  And  papa ! — 
you  can’t  remember  papa,  Letty,  — he  was  tall  and 
grand,  like  a prince,  and  when  he  smiled  he  made  me 
think  of  angels.  He  brought  me  toys  and  sweetmeats, 
and  carried  me  out  to  the  stable,  and  set  me  on  Romeo’s 
live  back,  and  laughed  because  I was  afraid ! And  I 
used  to  watch  to  see  him  come  up  the  street,  and  then 
run  to  the  door  to  jump  in  his  arms ; — he  was  a dear 
kind  papa,”  said  the  child,  in  a faltering  voice. 


60 


THANKSGIVING  STORV. 


“ Don’t  cry,”  said  the  little  one ; “ please  tell  me  some 
more.” 

“Well,  Thanksgiving-day  we  were  so  happy;  we  sat 
around  such  a large  table,  with  so  many  people,  ^ — 
aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins,  — 1 can’t  think  why  they 
never  come  to  see  us  now,  Letty,  — and  Betty  made  such 
sweet  pies,  and  we  had  a big  — big  turkey;  and  papa 
would  have  me  sit  next  to  him,  and  gave  me  the  wish- 
bone, and  all  the  plums  out  of  his  pudding ; and  after 
dinner  he  would  take  me  in  his  lap,  and  tell  me  ‘ Bed 
Biding  Hood,’  and  call  me  ‘ pet,’  and  ‘ bird,’  and  ‘ fairy.’ 
0,  Letty,  I can’t  tell  any  more  ; I believe  I ’m  going  to 
cry.” 

“ I ’m  very  cold,”  said  Letty.  “ Does  papa  know,  up 
in  heaven,  that  we  are  poor  and  hungry  now  ? ” 

“Yes  — no  — I can’t  tell,”  answered  Mary,  wiping 
away  her  tears  ; unable  to  reconcile  her  ideas  of  heaven 
with  such  a thought.  “ Hush ! — mamma  will  hear  ! ” 
Mamma  had  “heard.”  The  coarce  garment,  upon 
which  she  had  toiled  since  sunrise,  dropped  from  her 
hands,  and  tears  were  forcing  themselves,  thick  and  fast, 
through  her  closed  eyelids.  The  simple  recital  fourd  bui 
too  sad  an  echo  in  that  widowed  heart. 


SUMMER  FRIENDS; 


OR,  “WIl.L  IS  MIGHT.’’ 

“ It  is  really  very  unfortunate,  that  forgery  of  Mr 
Grrant’s.  I don’t  see  what  will  become  of  Emma.  T pre- 
sume she  won’t  think  of  holding  up  her  head  after  it.  I 
dare  say  she  will  expect  to  be  on  the  same  terms  with  her 
friends  as  before,  — but  the  thing  is  — ” 

“ Quite  impossible ! ” said  the  gay  Mrs.  Blair,  arrang- 
ing her  ringlets ; “ the  man  has  dragged  his  family  down 
with  him,  and  there ’s  no  help  for  it  that  I can  see.*’ 

“ He  has  no  family  but  Emma.”  said  her  friend,  “ and  1 
suppose  some  benevolent  soul  will  look  after  her ; at  any 
rate,  it  don’t  concern  us ; ” and  the  two  friends  (?)  tied  on 
their  hats  for  a promenade. 

Emma  Grant  was,  in  truth,  almost  broken-hearted  at 
this  sad  faux  pas  of  her  father’s ; but,  with  the  limited 
knowledge  of  human  nature  gleaned  from  the  experience 
of  a sunny  life  of  eighteen  happy  years,  she  doubted  not 
the  willingness  of  old  friends  to  assist  her  in  her  determi- 
nation to  become  a teacher.  To  one  after  another  of 
these  summer  friends  she  applied  for  patronage.  Some 
could  n’t  in  conscience  recommend  the  daughter  of  a 


62 


SUMMER  friends;  OR, 


defaulter ; ” some,  less  free-spoken,  went  on  the  non-com 
mittal  system  — “ would  think  of  it  and  let  her  know,”  — 
taking  very  good  care  not  to  specify  any  particular  time 
for  this  good  purpose ; others,  who  did  n’t  want  their 
consciences  troubled  by  the  sight  of  her,  advised  her,  very 
disinterestedly,  to  “ go  back  in  the  country  somewhere, 
and  occupy  the  independent  position  of  making  herself 
generally  useful  in  some  farmer’s  family others,  still, 
dodged  the  question  by  humbly  recommending  her  to  ap- 
ply to  persons  of  greater  influence  than  themselves ; and 
one  and  all  “ wished  her  well,  and  hoped  she ’d  succeed,” 
— thought  it  very  praiseworthy  that  she  should  try  to  do 
something  for  herself,  but  seemed  nervously  anxious  that 
it  should  be  out  of  their  latitude  and  longitude ; and  so, 
day  after  day,  foot-sore  and  weary,  Emma  reached  home, 
with  a discouraged  heart,  and  a sad  conviction  of  the 
selfishness  and  hollow-heartedness  of  human  nature. 

In  one  of  these  discouraged  moods  she  recollected  he^ 
old  friend,  Mr.  Bliss.  How  strange  she  should  not  have 
thought  of  him  before  ! She  had  often  hospitably  enter- 
tained him,  as  she  presided  at  her  father’s  table  ; he  stood 
very  high  in  repute  as  a pious  man,  and  very  benevo- 
jently  inclined ; he  surely  would  befriend  with  his  influ- 
ace  the  child  of  his  old,  though  fallen,  friend.  With 
enewed  courage  she  tied  on  her  little  bonnet,  and  set  out 
ji  search  of  him.  She  was  fortunate  in  finding  him  in ; 
out,  ah  * where  was  the  old  frank  smile,  and  extender! 


“WILL  IS  M 6HT.' 


63 


Hand  of  friendship  ? Mr.  Bliss  might  have  been  carved 
out  of  wood  for  any  demonstration  of  either  that  she 
could  see.  A very  stiff  bow,  and  a nervous  twitch  of  his 
waistband,  was  her  only  recognition.  With  difficulty  sh^ 
choked  down  the  rebellious  feelings  that  sent  the  flush  tc 
her  cheek  and  the  indignant  tears  to  her  eyes,  as  she 
recollected  the  many  evenings  he  had  received  a warm 
welcome  to  their  hospitable  fire-side,  and  timidly  ex- 
plained the  purpose  of  her  visit.  Mr.  Bliss,  employing 
himself  during  this  interval  in  the  apparent  arrangement 
of  some  r^usiness  papers,  with  an  air  that  said,  “If  you 
were  not  a woman  I should  n’t  hesitate  to  show  you  the 
door  in  a civil  way ; but  as  it  is,  though  I may  listen, 
that ’s  all  it  will  amount  to.”  Like  many  other  persons  in 
a like  dilemma,  he  quietly  made  up  his  mind  that  if  he 
could  succeed  in  irritating  her  sufficiently  to  rouse  her 
spirit,  he  would  in  all  probability  be  sooner  rid  of  her 
so  he  remarked  that  it  was  “ a very  bad  affair,  that  of 
her  father’s ; there  could  be  but  one  opinion  about  its 
disgraceful  and  dishonorable  nature  ; that,  of  course,  she 
was  n’t  to  blame  for  it,  but  she  could  n’t  expect  to  keep 
her  old  position  now ; and  that,  in  short,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, he  did  n’t  feel  as  if  it  would  be  well  for  him  to 
interfere  in  her  behalf  at  present.  He  had  no  doubt  in 
time  she  might  ‘ live  down’  her  father’s  disgrace and  so 
he  very  comfortably  seated  himself  in  his  leather-backed 
arm-chair^  and  took  up  a book. 


64 


SUMMER  friends;  OR 


A deep  red  spot  burned  on  Emma  Grray’s  cheek,  as  she 
retraced  her  steps.  Her  lithe  form  was  drawn  up  to  its 
full  height ; there  was  a fire  in  her  eye,  and  a firmness 
and  rapidity  in  her  step,  that  betokened  a new  energy. 
She  would  not  be  crushed  by  such  selfish  cowardice  and 
pusillanimity ; she  would  succeed, — and  unaided,  too,  save 
by  her  own  invincible  determination.  It  must  be  that 
she  should  triumph  yet. 

“ Will  is  might,’’  said  Emma,  as  she  bent  all  her  pow- 
ers to  the  accomplishment  of  her  purpose ; and  when  was 
that  motto  ever  known  to  fail,  when  accompanied  by  a 
spirit  undiscouraged  by  obstacles  ? 

It  did  not.  True,  Emma  rose  early,  and  sat  up  late : 
she  lived  on  a mere  crust ; she  was  a stranger  to  luxury, 
and  many  times  to  necessary  comforts.  Her  pillow 
was  often  wet  with  tears  fi-om  over-tasked  spirits  and 
failing  strength ; the  malicious  sneer  of  the  ill-judging, 
and  the  croaking  prophecy  of  the  ill-natured,  fell  upon 
her  sensitive  ear ; old  friends,  who  had  eat  and  drank  at 
her  table,  “ passed  by  on  the  other  side : ” and  there  were 
the  usual  number  of  good,  cautious,  timid  souls,  who  stood 
on  the  fence,  ready  to  jump  down  when  her  position  was 
certain,  and  she  had  placed  herself  beyond  the  need  of  their 
assistance  ! Foremost  in  this  rank  was  the  correct  and 
proper  Mr.  Bliss,  who  soiled  no  pharisaical  garment  of 
his,  by  juxtaposition  with  any  known  sinner,  or  doubtful 
pers/^)n 


“WILLIS  MIGHT.”  65 

At  the  expiration  of  a year,  Emma’s  school  contained 
pupils  from  the  first  families  in  the  city,  with  whose  whole 
education  she  was  entrusted,  and  who,  making  it  their 
home  with  her,  received,  out  of  school  hours,  the  watchful 
care  of  a mother.  It  became  increasingly  popular,  and 
Emma  was  able  to  command  her  own  price  for  her 
services. 

“ Why  don’t  you  send  your  daughter  to  my  friend. 
Miss  Grant  ? ” said  Mr.  Bliss  to  Senator  Hall ; “ she  is  a 
little  protege  of  mine — nice  young  woman  ! — came  to 
me  at  the  commencement  of  her  school  for  my  patronage ; 
— the  consequence  is,  she  has  gone  up  lik(5  a sky-rocket. 
They  call  it  the  ‘ Model  School.’  ” 

Condescending  Mr.  Bliss ! It  was  a pity  to  take  the 
nonsense  out  of  him ; but  you  should  have  seen  the  crest- 
fallen expression  of  his  whole  outer  man,  as  the  elegant 
widower  he  addressed  turned  on  him  a look  of  withering 
contempt,  saying,  — “ The  young  woman  of  whom  you 
speak,  sir,  will  be  my  wife  before  the  expiration  of 
another  week ; and,  in  her  name  and  mine,  I thank  you  for 
the  very  liberal  patronage  and  the  manly  encouragement 
you  extended  to  her  youth  and  helplessness  in  the  hour 
of  need.” 


It  is  needless  to  add  how  many  times,  in  the  course  of 
the  following  week,  the  inhabitants  of , who  had 


66 


SUMMER  FRIENDS. 


found  it  convenient,  entirely  to  forget  the  existence  of 
Miss  Emma  Grant,  were  heard  to  interlard  their  con- 
versation with  “ My  friend,  Mrs.  Senator  Hall.” 

Alas ! poor  human  nature  ! 


‘^NIL  DESPERANDUM.  ’ 


No,  NEVER ! Every  cloud  has  a silver  lining  ; and  He 
wno  wove  it  knows  when  to  turn  it  out.  So,  after  every 
night,  however  long  or  dark,  there  shall  yet  come  a golden 
morning.  Your  noblest  powers  are  never  developed  in 
prosperity.  Any  bark  may  glide  in  smooth  water,  with 
a favoring  gale ; but  that  is  a brave,  skilful  oarsman 
who  rows  up  stream,  against  the  current,  with  adverse 
winds,  and  no  cheering  voice  to  wish  him  “ God  speed.” 
Keep  your  head  above  the  wave ; let  neither  sullen 
despair  nor  weak  vacillation  drag  you  under.  Heed  not 
the  poisoned  arrow  of  sneaking  treachery  that  whizzes 
past  you  from  the  shore.  J udas  sold  himself  when  he 
sold  his  Master ; and  for  him  there  dawned  no  resurrec- 
tion morning ! ’T  is  glorious  to  battle  on  with  a brave 
heart,  while  cowering  pusillanimity  turns  trembling  back. 
Dream  not  of  the  word  “ surrender ! ” When  one  frail 
human  reed  after  another  breaks,  or  bends  beneath  you, 
lean  on  the  “ Rock  of  Ages.”  The  Great  Alchemist 
passes  you  through  the  furnace  but  to  purify.  The  fire 
may  scorch,  but  it  shall  never  consume  you.  He  will 
yet  label  you  “fine  gold.”  The  narrow  path  may  be 
thorny  to  your  tender  feet ; but  the  “ promised  land  ” 


68 


NIL  LESPER ANDUM . 


lies  beyond ! The  clusters  of  Hope  may  be  seen  with  the 
eye  of  faith;  your  hand  shall  yet  grasp  them ; your  eyes 
revel,  from  the  mountain  top,  over  the  green  pastures 
and  still  waters  of  peace.  You  shall  ret  unbuckle  your 
dusty  arw^or,  while  soft  breezes  shall  fan  your  victor 
'imples  NU  desverandu7n  ! 


CECILE  GREY. 


“ Alas  for  Lore  ! if  this  he  all, 

And  naught  beyond  ; 0 earth  ! ” 

“ ’T  IS  a girl,  sir ; my  lady  has  a daughter.” 

“ Heaven  be  praised ! ” said  the  discontented  father  of 
six  unruly  boys.  “ Now  I shall  have  something  gentle 
to  love.  Small  comfort  to  me,  those  boys  ; house  topsy- 
turvy from  morning  till  night,  with  their  guns,  fishing 
tackle,  pointers,  setters,  hounds,  spaniels  and  what  not. 
Tom’s  college  bills  perfectly  ruinous  — horses,  oysters 
and  cigars  all  lumped  under  the  general  head  of  et 
cete'^'as  ; I understand  it  all  — or  my  purse  does  ! But 
this  little,  gentle  girl,  — climbing  upon  my  knee,  mak- 
ing music  and  sunshine  in  the  house,  with  her  innocent 
face  and  silvery  laugh,  — this  little,  human  blossom  by 
life’s  rough,  thorny  wayside,  she  ’ll  make  amends.  I ’m 
not  the  happiest  husband  in  the  world ; my  heart  shall 
find  a resting-place  here.  She  must  be  highly  educated 
and  accomplished.  I shall  spare  no  pains  to  effect  that. 
Ah,  I see,  after  all,  I shall  have  a happy  old  age,” 

Very  lovely  was  the  little  Cecile.  She  had  her 
mother’s  soft  hazel  eye  and  waving  auburn  hair,  and  her 


70 


CBOILE  GREY. 


father’s  Grecian  profile.  There  was  a winning  sweetness 
in  her  smile,  and  grace  and  poetry  in  every  motion.  It 
was  a pretty  sight,  her  golden  tresses  mingling  with 
those  silver  locks,  as  she  rested  her  bright  head  against 
the  old  man’s  cheek.  Even  “ the  boys  ” could  harbor  no 
anger  at  her  quiet  reign.  She  wound  herself  quite  as 
closely  around  their  hearts.  Then  it  was  a new  tie  to 
bind  the  sundered  husband  and  wife  together.  Some- 
thing of  the  old,  by-gone  tenderness  crept  unconsciously 
into  their  manner  to  each  other.  It  was  their  idol ; and 
they  pressed  her  rapturously  to  the  parental  heart,  for- 
getting she  was  but  clay. 

Tutors  and  governesses  without  limit  went  and  came, 
before  the  important  selection  was  made.  Then,  so  many 
injunctions ! She  “ must  not  study  so  much  as  to  spoil 
her  fine  eyes ; ” she  “ must  draw  only  a few  minutes  at  a 
time,  lest  it  should  cause  a stoop  in  her  shoulders ; ” she 
“ must  not  go  out  in  the  sun,  for  fear  of  injuring  her 
complexion.”  She  was  told,  every  hour  in  the  day,  of 
some  rare  perfection ; now  her  attitude  — then  her  eyes 
— then  her  shape ; she  “ danced  like  a fairy  ” — “ sang 
like  a seraph  ” — in  short,  needed  wings  only,  to  make 
her  an  angel ! 

Every  servant  in  the  house  knew  that  his  or  her  for- 
tune was  made  if  Miss  Cecile  was  pleased,  and  shaped 
their  course  accordingly.  If  “ the  boys  ” were  doubtful 
:f  the  success  of  a request,  Cecile  was  employed  secretly 


OECILE  GREY. 


71 


CO  negotiate.  The  reins  of  household  government  were 
in  those  little,  fairy  fingers. 

No  wonder  the  little  Cecile  thought  herself  omnipo- 
tent. No  wonder  she  stood  before  her  “Psyche,”  ar- 
ranging, with  a maiden’s  pride,  those  glossy  ringlets. 
Small  marvel  that  she  saw  with  exultation  those  round, 
polished  limbs,  pearly  teeth,,  and  starry  eyes,  and 
tossed  her  bright  curls  in  triumph,  at  the  hearts  that 
were  already  laid  at  her  feet.  Her  mirror  but  silently 
repeated  the  voice  of  flattery  that  met  her  at  every  step. 
Cecile  was  beautiful ! The  temple  was  passing  fair ; 
but,  ah ! there  rose  from  its  altar  no  holy  incense  to 
Heaven.  Those  bright  eyes  opened  and  closed  like  the 
flowers,  and  like  them  drank  in  the  dew  and  the  sunlight, 
regardless  of  the  Giver. 

It  was  Cecile’s  eighteenth  birth-day.  The  most  expen 
sive  preparations  had  been  made  to  celebrate  it.  She 
was  to  electrify  the  beau  irumde  with  her  debut,  A 
gossamer  robe,  fit  for  a Peri,  silvery  and  light,  floated 
soft  as  a fleecy  cloud  around  those  matchless  limbs. 
Gems  and  jewels  would  have  been  out  of  place  besid<» 
those  starry  eyes.  Nature’s  simplest  offering,  the  droop- 
ing lily,  blended  with  her  tresses.  The  flush  of  youth 
and  hope  was  on  her  cheek ; her  step  was  already  on  the 
threshold  of  that  brilliant,  untried  world,  which  her 
beauty  was  to  dazzle  and  conquer.  Other  sylph-like 
forms  Uiere  were,  and  bright  faces,  that  made  sunlight  in 


72 


CSGILE  GREY. 


happy  homes ; but  the  peerless  Cecile  quenched  their 
beams  on  that  happy  birth-night. 

The  proud  father  looked  on  exultingly.  “Beautiful 
as  a dream ! ’ ’ echoed  from  one  end  of  the  saloon  to  the 
other.  His  eye  followed  her,  noted  every  glance  of 
admiration,  and  then  he  said  to  himself,  “The  idol  in, 
mine.”  Say  you  so,  fond  father?  See,  her  head  droops 
heavily,  — her  limbs  relax,  — she  has  fainted  ! They 
gather  round  her,  — they  bathe  her  pale  face  and  power- 
less hands;  then  they  bear  her  to  her  dressing-room,  and 
she  lies  on  that  silken  couch,  like  some  rare  piece  of 
sculpture.  The  revellers  disperse ; the  garlands  droop  ; 
<larkness  and  silence  reign  where  merry  feet  tripped 
lightly.  The  physician  sits  by  the  bedside  of  his  fair 
patient,  and,  with  mistaken  kindness,  he  says  to  the 
frantic  parents,  “ She  will  be  easier  soon,  — she  will  be 
free  from  pain  to-morrow ; ” and  then  he  leaves  her  with 
the  anxious  watchers. 

Morning  dawned.  Yes,  Cecile  was  “ better,”  — so  her 
father  said  ; and  she  sat  up,  and  put  her  fair  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  called  him  “her  own  dear  father ! ” and  ho 
smiled  through  his  tears,  and  parted  the  bright,  damp 
locks  from  her  brow,  and  said  “ she  should  have  another 
Dali,  gayer  than  the  last,  and  look  lovelier  than  ever ; ” 
and  then  her  mother  laid  a bandeau  of  pearls  across  her 
pale  forehead,  and  said,  “ they  became  her  passing  well.’ 
Cecile  smiled  faintly  when  she  replaced  them  in  their 


CECILE  GRESr. 


73 


case,  and  then  her  mother  came  back  again  to  the  bed- 
side. Ah ! what  fearful  shadow,  in  that  momentary 
interval,  had  crept  over  that  sweet  face  ? “ Cecile ! 

Cecile!’’  said  the  bewildered  woman,  shivering  with  an 
indefinable  terror  ; “ speak  to  me,  Cecile ! what  is  it  ? ” 
Am  I dying,  mother  ? — 0,  mother ! you  never 
taught  me  how  to  die ! 


In  the  still  gray  dawn,  at  sultry  noon,  in  the  hushed 
and  starry  night,  long  after  that  bright  young  head  was 
covered  with  the  violets,  rang  that  plaintive,  reproachful 
voice  in  the  parental  ear,  “ You  never  taught  me  how  to 
die ! 


D 


CHILDHOOD’S  TRUST. 


**  ‘ I asked  God  to  take  care  of  Johnny,  and  then  I went  to  sleep,* 
laid  a little  boy,  giving  an  account  of  his  wandering  in  the  wood.” 

How  sublime ! how  touching ! Holy  childhood ! Let 
me  sit  at  thy  feet  and  learn  of  thee.  How  dost  thou 
rebuke  me,  with  thy  simple  ^ith  and  earnest  love  ! O, 
earth ! what  dost  thou  give  us  in  exchange  for  its  loss  ? 

- Rainbows,  that  melt  as  we  gaze ; bubbles  that  burst 
as  we  grasp ; dew-drops,  that  exhale  as  our  eye  catches 
their  sparkle.  The  warm  heart,  chilled  by  selfishness, 
fenced  in  by  doubts,  and  thrown  back  upon  itself.  Eye, 
lip  and  brow,  trained  to  tell  no  tale  at  the  portal,  of 
what  passes  within  the  temple  Tears,  locked  in  their 
fountain,  save  when  our  own  -household  gods  are  shiv- 
ered. The  great  strife,  not  w lich  shall  “ love  most,”  but 
“ which  shall  be  the  greate  ’ ; ” and  aching  hearts  the 
ucepplng-stones  to  wealth  and  power.  Immortal,  yet 
earth-wedded ! Playing  w ith  shells  upon  the  shore  of 
time,  with  the  broad  ocean  of  eternity  before  us.  Care- 
ful and  troubled  about  trifles,  forgetting  to  “ ask  God  to 
take  care  of  Johnny,”  - and  so,  the  long  night  of  death 
comes  on,  and  we  sleep  our  last  sleep ! 


ELISE  DE  VAUX. 


“ Well,  doctor,  what  do  you  think  of  her  ? She  has 
set  her  heart  upon  going  to  that  New-Year’s  ball,  and  it 
will  never  do  to  disappoint  her,  — poor  thing  ! ” 

The  blunt  old  doctor  bit  his  lip  impatiently,  and,  strik- 
ing his  gold-headed  cane  in  no  very  gentle  manner  upon 
the  floor,  said  : Think  ! ’ 1 think  it  would  be  perfect 

insanity  for  her  to  attempt  it.  I won’t  be  answerable  for 
the  consequences.” 

“ Pshaw ! my  dear  sir ; she  has  had  a dozen  attacks 
before,  quite  as  bad,  and  — ” 

“ And  that  is  the  very  reason  she  should  be  more  cau- 
tious now,  madam.  Good  morning  — good  morning  ! — 
Heaven  save  me  from  these  fashionable  mothers ! ” he 
muttered,  as  he  banged  the  door  to  behind  him.  “ She  ’ll 
kill  the  girl,  and  then  her  death  will  be  laid  at  my  door 
— ugh ! It  would  be  a comfort  if  one  could  meet  a 
sensible  womaiL,  occasionally.” 

Elise  was  sitting  in  bed,  propped  up  by  pillows,  when 
her  mother  entered.  If  youth,  grace  and  beauty,  could 
bribe  the  destroyer,  or  turn  aside  his  unerring  aim,  then 
had  she  been  spared.  Her  cheek  was  marble  pale,  and 
rested  wearily  on  one  little  hand ; the  eyes  were  cl  Dsed 


76 


ELISF  D E V AUX . 


as  if  sleeping,  and  from  the  other  hand  a few  choice 
flowers  had  escaped,  and  lay  scattered  upon  the  snowy 
counterpane. 

“ 0,  is  that  yon,  manuna  ? I hope  you  have  made 
fchat  stupid  doctor  give  you  something  that  will  set  me 
up.  I feel  such  a deadly  sinking,  from  want  of  nourish- 
ment, I fancy.  Do  pray  see  what  you  can  get  for  me. 
I hope  Dr.  Wynn  did  n’t  presume  to  interfere  about  my 
going  to  the  ball ; because  I intend  to  go,  dead  or  alive ; 
and,  mamma,  while  my  lunch  is  getting  ready,  just  bring 
me  my  dress,  and  let  me  see  if  Jeanhet  has  placed  the 
trimmings  where  they  should  be ; and  have  a ruche  placed 
around  the  wrist  of  my  kid  gloves ; and,  mamma,  don’t 
forget  to  send  Tom  to  Anster’s  for  that  pearl  spray  I 
selected  for  my  hair  ; and,  by  the  way,  just  hand  me  that 
mirror,  — I am  afraid  I ’m  looking  awfully  pale.” 

Not  now,”  said  the  frightened  mother  ; “ you  are  too 
weary.  Wait  till  you  have  had  some  refreshment ;”  and 
the  pale  beauty  sank  back  on  her  pillow,  crushing  a 
wealth  of  dark  ringlets,  and  closed  her  eyes  wearily,  in 
spite  of  her  determination  to  be  well. 

A ring  at  the  door.  A bright  flush  came  to  her 
cheek.  That ’s  Vivian,  mamma.  Tell  him  — tell  him  ” 
— and  a sharp  pain  through  her  temples  forced  her  to 
pause  — “ tell  him  I ’m  better ; and  he  may  call  for  me  at 
ten,  to-morrow  night ; and,  mamma,  hand  him  this ;”  and 


ELISE  DE  V AUX. 


77 


she  drew  a little  perfumed  note  from  beneath  her  pillow 
with  a rose-bud  crushed  in  its  folds. 

“ Draw  aside  the  curtain,  J eannet.  0,  we  shall  have 
a nice  evening  for  the  dance  ! Now  hand  me  my  dress- 
ing-gown. Mamma,  that  medicine  is  perfectly  miracu- 
lous ; I never  felt  better.  Heaven  knows  where  I should 
have  been,  had  you  not  called  in  a better  counsellor  than 
Dr.  Wynn.  He  would  like  me  for  a patient  a year,  I 
dare  say ; but  I knew  better  than  to  line  his  pockets  that 
way and  she  skipped  gayly  across  the  floor  to  a large 
fauteuil,  and  called  J eannet  to  arrange  her  hair. 

“ Softly,  softly,  J eannet ! My  head  is  n’t  quite  right, 
yet.  There,  that  will  do,”  said  Elise,  as  the  skilful 
French  woman  bound  tress  after  tress  in  complicated 
glossy  braids  around  her  well-formed  head.  “Now  place 
that  pearl  spray  a little  to  the  left,  just  over  my  ear 
Pretty,  is  it  not  mamma  ? ” 

“ Here,  Jeannet ! ” and  she  extended  the  dainty  foot 
for  its  silken  hose  and  satin  slipper. 

“ Rest  awhile,  now,  Elise,”  said  her  mother,  as  she 
looked  apprehensively  at  the  bright  crimson  spot  on  her 
cheek,  that  grew  deeper  every  moment,  and  contrasted  so 
strikingly  with  the  marble  paleness  of  her  brow.  “ I ’m 
afraid  you  are  going  beyond  your  strength.” 

“ Mamma,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ? Look  at  me, 
and  see  how  well  I look  ! Besides,  I ’d  go  to  this  ball, 
to-night,  if  it  cost  me  my  life.  Mabel  has  triumphed 


ELISE  DB  VAUX. 


/8 

over  me  once ; she  shall  not  do  it  a second  time.  Be- 
sides, there  is  really  no  danger.  I feel  wild  with  spirits, 
to-night,  and  anticipate  a most  brilliant  evening and 
she  clasped  the  pearl  pendants  in  her  small  ears ; and 
the  light,  fleecy  dress  fell  in  soft  folds  about  her  graceful 
person,  and  upon  her  fair  arm  she  placed  Ms  gift ; and, 
taking  in  her  hand  the  rich  bouquet,  every  flower  of  which 
whispered  hope  to  her  young  heart,  she  held  up  her  cheek 
with  a bewitching  smile,  and  said  : “Now  kiss  me,  mam- 
ma, and  say  that  you  are  proud  of  Elise.” 

And  now  Jeannet,  with  officious  care,  draws  the  rich 
opera  cloak  about  her  shoulders,  and  with  a thousand 
charges  from  mamma,  “ to  beware  of  the  draughts,  par 
take  sparingly  of  ice,  and  not  fatigue  herself  with 
dancing,”  the  carriage  wheels  roll  away  from  the  door, 
freighted  with  their  lovely  burden. 

“Elise  de  Vaux,  here!”  said  a tall,  queenly  girl, 
attired  in  black  velvet ; and  she  curled  her  pretty  lip 
with  ill-concealed  vexation.  “ I thought  her  dying,  or 
near  it.”  And,  as  Elise  glided  gracefully  past  in  the 
dance,  every  eye  following  her,  and  every  tongue  eloquent 
in  her  praise,  Mabel’s  cheek  paled  with  anger. 

“ How  radiant  she  is  ! — how  dazzling  ! Sickness  has 
but  enhanced  her  beauty,  — and  how  proudly  Vivian 
bears  her  through  the  waltz  ! Every  step  they  take  is 
on  my  heart-strings.  This  must  not,  — shall  not  be  ! 
Courage,  coward  heart ! ” — and,  mastering  her  feelings 


SLI8B  BB  VAUX. 


79 


with  a strong  effort,  she  joined  the  dancers.  Excitement 
and  exercise  soon  brought  the  rose  to  her  cheek ; her 
eyes  grew  wildly  brilliant,  and,  had  Vivian  not  been 
magnetized  past  recall,  his  eye  would  have  been  caught 
by  the  dazzling  vision. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  rival  belles ; and,  amid 
the  voluptuous  swell  of  music,  the  flashing  of  lights,  the 
overpowering  sweetness  of  myriad  flowers,  and  the  rapid, 
whirling  motion  of  the  dance,  every  brain  and  heart  were 
dizzy  with  excitement. 

“ Heavens  ’ that  is  not  Elise  de  Vaux,”  said  a nephew 
of  Dr.  Wynn’s.  “ What  mad  folly  ! My  uncle  told  me, 
if  she  came,  it  would  be  at  the  price  of  her  life.  How 
surpassingly  beautiful  she  is  ! ” 

Still  on,  on  they  whirled  — the  dancers  — till  the  stars 
grew  pale,  and  the  sweet  flowers  drooped  in  the  heated 
atmosphere. 

“ No  sleep  till  morn,  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet. 

To  chase  the  glowing  hours,  with  flying  feet  ” 

‘‘  What  unearthly  beauty  ! ” said  an  old  gentleman  to 
a young  man,  upon  whose  arm  he  was  leaning,  as  Elise 
glided  past.  “ Who  is  she?  ” 

“Elise  de  Vaux,”  said  the  young  man,  mechanically, 
his  eyes  riveted  to  her  figure. 

“ Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?’  said  he,  tapping 
him  gently  on  the  arm. 


ELISE  DE  V A U X . 


^^0 

“ Yes.  Elise  de  Vaux.” 

“ Well,  why  do  you  look  at  her  so  wildly  ? Has  Cupid 
aimed  a dart  at  you,  from  out  those  blue  eyes  ? ” 

“ Good  God ! ” said  the  young  man,  leaping  forward, 
as  a piercing  shriek  came  upon  the  air.  “ Make  room  ! 
— help  ! — throw  up  the  windows  ! and  Elise  was  borne 
past,  gasping,  senseless,  to  the  cool  night  air. 

Ay,  Vivian  ! Kneel  at  her  side,  chafe  the  little  jew 
elled  hands,  put  back  the  soft  hair  from  the  azure-veined 
temples,  press  the  pulseless  wrist,  listen  for  the  beating 
heart,  — in  vain  ! Elise  is  dead  ! 

And  in  the  arms  of  him,  for  whom  she  had  thrown 
away  her  young  life,  she  was  borne  to  her  home ; — the 
diamond  sparkling  mockingly  on  the  clay-cold  finger ; the 
pearls  still  ^lingering  amid  her  soft  ringlets ; the  round, 
symmetrical  limbs  still  fair  in  their  beautiful  proportion? 
The  heart  she  coveted  was  gained,  — the  dear -boughl 
victory  was  won. 


THE  WAIL  OF  A BROKEN  HEART. 


“ *T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost,  than  never  to  have  loved  at 
all.” 

0,  NO ; no ! — else  you  have  never  passed  from  the 
shield  of  a broad,  true  breast,  where  for  long  years  you 
had  been  lovingly  folded,  to  a widow’s  weeds,  and  the 
rude  jostling,  and  curious  gaze,  of  the  heartless  crowd  ! 
— never  knew  long,  wretched  days,  that  seemed  to  have 
no  end,  — never  turned,  with  a stifled  sob,  from  the  clasp 
of  loving  little  arms,  and  the  uplifted  gaze  of  an  eye 
upon  whose  counterpart  you  had  watched  the  death-filtn 
gather,  — never  saw  that  sunny  little  face  overshadowed 
with  grief,  when  other  children  gleefully  called  “ Papa ! 
t^or  ever  heard  the  wail  of  a little  ^ne,  who  might  never 
remember  its  father’s  face ! — 

No ! no  ! — or  you  have  never  turned  shudderingly 
away,  in  the  crowded  street,  from  the  outline  of  a form, 
or  the  cast  of  a face,  or  the  tone  of  a voice,  that  brought 
the  dead  mockingly  before  you ! — never  lain  upon  a sick 
bed,  among  careless  strangers,  lacking  comforts,  where 
luxury  once  abounded,  and  listening  in  vain  for  that 
footfall,  whose  lightest  tread  could  charm  your  pain 
away ! — never  draped  from  your  aching  sight  th<> 
D*  6 


82 


THE  WAIL  OP  A BROKEN  HEART. 


pictured  lineaments,  that  quickened  busy  and  torturing 
memory,  till  your  heart  was  breaking ! — never  waked 
from  a dream  of  Paradise,  to  weep  unavailing,  bitter 
tears  at  the  sad  reality  ! — and  never  — alas ! — bent 
your  rebellious  knee  at  God’s  altar,  when  your  tongue 
was  dumb,  to  praise  Him,  and  your  lips  refused  to  kiss 
the  Smiter’s  rod ! 

0,  no  ; no  ! better  never  to  have  loved ! — Tenfold  more 
gloomy  is  the  murky  day,  whose  sunny  morning  was 
ushered  in  with  dazzling,  golden  brightness  ! Agonizing 
is  the  death-struggle  of  the  shipwrecked  mariner  who 
perishes  in  sight  of  shore  and  home ! Harshly  fall  care- 
less words  upon  the  ear  trained  to  the  music  of  a loving 
voice.  Wearily  stumble  the  tender  feet  unguarded  by 
love’s  watchful  eye ! O,  no ; no ! better  never  to  have 
loved  ! — He,  whose  first  breath  was  drawn  in  a dungeon, 
never  pines  for  green  fields,  and  blue  skies,  and  a freer 
air  ! — God  pity  the  desolate,  loving  heart,  the  only  star 
of  whose  sky  has  gone  out  in  utter  darkness ! 


MARY  LEE. 


“ Percy,  dear  Percy,  take  back  those  bitter  words  1 A 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  they  are  undeserved  by  me.  See, 
my  eye  quails  not  beneath  yours;  my  cheek  blanches 
not.  I stand  before  you,  at  this  moment,  with  every  vow 
I made  you  at  the  altar  unbroken,  in  letter  and  spirit;  ” 
and  she  drew  closer  to  him,  and  laid  her  delicate  hand 
upon  his  broad  breast.  “ Wrong  me  not,  Percy,  even  in 
thought.’’ 

The  stern  man  hesitated.  Had  he  not  wilfully  blinded 
himself,  he  had  read  truth  and  honor  in  the  depths  of  the 
clear  blue  eyes  that  looked  so  unflinchingly  into  his  own. 
For  a moment,  their  expression  overcame  him;  then, 
dashing  aside  the  slender  fingei*s  that  rested  upon  him,  he 
left  her  with  a muttered  oath. 

Mary  Lee  had  the  misfortune  to  be  very  pretty,  and 
the  still  greater  misfortune  to  marry  a jealous  husband. 
Possessing  a quick  and  ready  wit,  and  great  conversa- 
tional powers,  a less  moderate  share  of  personal  charms 
would  have  made  her  society  eagerly  sought  for. 

As  soon  as  her  eyes  were  opened  to  the  defect  alluded 
to  in  her  husband’s  character,  she  set  herself  studiously 
to  avoid  the  shoals  and  quicksands  that  lay  in  the  matri 


84 


MARY  LEE. 


monial  sea.  One  by  one,  she  quietly  dropped  the 
acquaintance  of  gentlemen,  who,  from  their  attractive- 
ness or  preference  for  her  society,  seemed  obnoxious  to 
Percy. 

Mary  was  no  coquette.  Nature  had  given  her  a heart ; 
and  superior  as  she  was  to  her  husband,  she  really  loved 
him.  To  most  women,  his  exacting  unreasonableness 
would  only  have  stimulated  to  a finished  display  of 
coquetry ; but  Mary,  gentle  and  yielding,  made  no  show 
of  opposition  to  the  most  absurd  requirements.  But  all 
these  sacrifices  had  been  unavailing  to  propitiate  the  fiend 
of  jealousy;  — and  there  she  sat,  an  hour  after  her  hus- 
band had  left  her,  with  her  hands  pressed  tightly  together, 
pale  and  tearless,  striving,  in  vain,  to  recall  any  cause  of 
ofience. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  by,  and  still  he  came  not.  The 
heavy  tramp  of  feet  had  long  since  ceased  beneath  the 
window ; the  pulse  of  the  great  city  was  still ; silence 
and  darkness  brooded  over  its  slumbering  thousands. 
Mary  could  endure  it  no  longer.  Bising,  and  putting 
aside  the  curtain,  she  pressed  her  face  close  against  the 
window-pane,  as  if  her  straining  eye  could  pierce  the 
gloom  of  midnight.  She  hears  a step ! it  is  his ! 

Trembling,  she  sank  upon  the  sofa  to  await  his  coming 
and  nerve  herself  to  bear  his  bitter  harshness. 

Percy  came  gayly  up  to  her  and  kissed  her  forehead 
Mary  passed  ber  hand  over  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him 


MARY  LEB. 


again.  No ! he  was  not  exhilarated  with  wine.  What 
could  have  caused  this  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling? 
Single-hearted  and  sincere  herself,  she  never  dreamed  of 
treachery. 

“ Percy  regrets  his  injustice,”  she  said  to  herself. 

Men  are  rarely  magnanimous  enough  to  own  they  have 
been  in  the  wrong ; ” and,  with  the  generosity  of  a noble 
heart,  she  resolved  never  to  remind  him,  by  speech  or 
look,  that  his  words  had  been  like  poisoned  arrows  to  her 
spirit. 

The  following  day,  Percy  proposed  their  taking  “ a 
short  trip  into  a neighboring  town,”  and  Mary,  glad  to 
convince  him  how  truly  she  forgave  him,  readily  com- 
plied. It  was  a lovely  day  in  spring,  and  the  fresh  air 
and  sweet-scented  blossoms  might  have  sent  a thrill  of 
pleasure  to  sadder  hearts  than  theirs. 

“ Wliat  a pretty  place ! ” said  Mary.  “ WTiat  a spacious 
house,  and  how  tastefully  the  grounds  are  laid  out ! Do 
you  stop  here  ? ” she  continued,  as  her  husband  reined  the 
horse  into  the  avenue. 

“ A few  moments.  I have  business  here,”  replied 
Percy,  slightly  averting  his  face,  “and  you  had  better 
alight  too,  for  the  horse  is  restive  and  may  trouble  you.” 

Mary  sprang  lightly  from  the  vehicle  and  ascended  the 
capacious  stone  steps.  They  were  met  at  the  door  by  a 
respectable  gray-haired  porter,  who  ushered  them  into  a 
receiving  room.  Very  soon,  a little,  sallow-faced  man. 


86 


MARY  LEE. 


bearing  a strong  resemblance  to  a withered  orange,  made 
his  appearance,  and  casting  a glance  upon  Mary,  from  his 
little  twinkling  black  eyes,  that  made  the  blood  mount  to 
her  cheeks,  made  an  apology  for  withdrawing  her  hus 
band  for  a few  minutes,  on  business,”  to  an  adjoining 
room. 

As  they  left,  a respectable,  middle-aged  woman  entered, 
and  invited  Mary  to  take  off  her  hat.  She  declined, 
saying,  she  was  to  leave  with  her  husband  in  a few 
minutes.” 

The  old  woman  then  jingled  a small  bell,  and  another 
matron  entered. 

“ Better  not  use  force,”  said  she,  in  a whisper.  ‘‘  Poor 
thing ! So  pretty,  too  ! She  don’t  look  as  though  she  d 
wear  a ‘ strait-jacket.’  ” 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Mary  at  once ! She  was  in  a 
Lunatic  Hospital ! Faint  with  terror,  she  demanded  to 
see  her  husband, — assured  them  she  was  perfectly  sane ; 
to  all  of  which  they  smiled  quietly,  with  an  air  that  said 
“We  are  used  to  such  things  here.” 

By  and  by,  the  little  wizen-faced  doctor  came  in,  and, 
listening  to  her  eloquent  appeal  with  an  abstracted  air,  as 
^ one  would  tolerate  the  prattle  of  a petted  child,  he 
examined  her  pulse,  and  motioned  the  attendants  to  “ wait 
upon  her  to  her  room.”  Exhausted  with  the  tumult  of 
feeling  she  had  passed  through,  she  followed  without  a 
show  of  resistance;  but  who  shall  describe  the  death-chill 


MARY  LEE. 


OT 

that  struck  to  her  heart  as  she  entered  it  ? There  was  a 
bed  of  snowy  whiteness,  a table,  a chair,  all  scrupulously 
neat  and  clean ; but  the  breath  of  the  sweet-scented  bios 
soms  came  in  through  a grated  window ! 

Some  refreshment  was  brought  her,  of  which  she 
refused  to  partake.  She  could  not  even  weep  ; her  eyes 
seemed  turned  to  stone.  She  could  hear  the  maniac 
laughter  of  her  fellow-prisoners,  — she  could  see  some  of 
the  most  harmless  marching  in  gloomy  file  through  the 
grounds,  with  their  watchful  body-guard. 

Poor  Mary ! She  felt  a stifled,  choking  sensation  in 
her  throat,  as  if  the  air  she  breathed  were  poison ; and, 
with  her  nervous,  excitable  temperament,  God  knows  the 
chance  she  stood  to  become  what  they  really  thought  her 
To  all  her  eager  inquiries  she  received  only  evasive 
answers ; or  else  the  subject  was  skilfully  and  summarily 
dismissed  to  make  place  for  one  in  which  she  had  no 
interest. 

Little  Dr.  Van  Brunt  daily  examined  her  pulse,  and 
hoped  she  was  improving  ” — or,  if  she  was  n’t,  it  was 
his  interest  to  issue  a bulletin  to  that  eifect,  and  all  “ com- 
pany ” was  vetoed  as  “ exciting  and  injurious  to  the 
patient.”  And  so  day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
dragged  slowly  along.  And  Percy,  with  the  mean- 
ness of  a revengeful  spirit,  was  “ biding  his  time,” 
till  the  punishment  should  be  suiBSciently  salutary  to 
warrant  his  recalling  her  home.  But  while  he  wa?^ 


MARY  LEE. 


8P 

quietly  waiting  tho  accomplishment  of  his  purpose,  the 
friend  of  the  weary  came  to  her  relief. 

“ Leave  me,  please,  will  you  ? ” said  Mary  to  the 
nurse,  as  she  turned  her  cheek  to  the  pillow,  like  a tired 
child.  “ I want  to  be  alone.” 

The  old  woman  took  her  sewing  and  seated  herself  just 
outside  the  door,  thinking  she  might  wish  to  sleep.  In  a 
few  moments  she  peeped  cautiously  through  the  open 
door.  Mrs.  Percy  still  lay  there,  in  the  same  position, 
with  her  cheek  nestling  in  the  palm  of  her  little  hand. 

‘‘She  sleeps  sweetly,”  she  muttered  to  herself  as  she 
resumed  her  work. 

Yes,  Dame  Ursula,  but  it  is  the  “ sleep  ” from  which 
only  the  trump  of  the  archangel  shall  wake  her ! 

Mary’s  secret  died  with  her,  and  the  remorse  that  is 
busy  at  the  heart  of  Percy  is  known  only  to  his  Maker. 


A TALK  ABOUT  BABIES. 


Baby  carts  on  narrow  sidewalks  are  awful  bores,  especially  to  e bur 
•*©d  business  man.” 

Are  they  ? Suppose  you,  and  a certain  pair  of  blue 
eyes,  that  you  would  give  half  your  patrimony  to  win, 
were  joint  proprietors  of  that  baby ! I should  n’t  dare  to 
stand  very  near  you,  and  call  it  a “ nuisance.”  It ’s  all 
very  well  for  bachelors  to  turn  up  their  single-blessed 
noses  at  these  little  dimpled  Cupids ; but  just  wait  tDl 
their  time  comes ! See  them  the  minute  their  name  is 
written  “ Papa,  ” pull  up  their  dickies,  and  strut  off  down 
street,  as  if  the  Commonwealth  owed  them  a pension ! 
When  they  enter  the  office,  see  their  old  married  partner 
— to  whom  babies  have  long  since  ceased  to  be  a 
novelty  — laugh  in  his  sleeve  at  the  new-fledged  dignity 
with  which  that  baby’s  advent  is  announced  ! How  per 
fectly  astonished  they  feel  that  they  should  have  been  so 
infatuated  as  not  to  perceive  that  a man  is  a perfect 
cipher  till  he  is  at  the  head  of  a family ! How  fre- 
quently one  may  see  them  now,  lookuig  in  at  the  shop 
windows,  with  intense  interest,  at  little  hats,  coral  and 
tiells,  and  baby-jumpers ! How  they  love  to  come  home 
to  dinner,  and  press  that  little  velvet  cheek  to  their 


BO  A TALK  ABOUT  BABIES 

business  faces?  Was  ever  any  music  half  so  sweet 
to  their  ear,  as  its  first  lisped  “ Papa  ” ? 0,  how 

closely  and  imperceptibly,  one  by  one,  that  little  plant 
winds  its  tendrils  round  the  parent  stem ! How  anx- 
iously they  hang  over  its  cradle  when  the  cheek  flushes, 
and  the  lip  is  fever-parched ; and  how  wide,  and  deep, 
and  long  a shadow,  in  their  happy  homes,  its  little  grave 
would  cast ! 

My  DEAR  sir,  depend  upon  it,  one’s  own  baby  is  never 
‘ a nuisance.”  Love  heralds  its  birth  ’ 


ELSIE’S  FI  1ST  TRIAL. 


Five  happy  years  had  Elsie  Lee  slept  on  her  husband^s 
bosom.  False  prophets  were  they,  who  shook  their  heads 
at  her  bridal,  and  said  she  would  rue  the  day  she  wedded 
Harry  Lee  ; — that  he  was  “ unsteady,  impulsive  and 
fickle.” 

She  tnew  it  was  true,  as  they  said,  that  he  had  loved 
unhappily  before  she  met  him ; but  the  bright  vision  that 
bad  bewildered  him  was  far  beyond  the  seas;  — she  might 
never  cross  his  path  again.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Elsie  was 
not  the  woman  to  cloud  the  sunshine  of  the  present  wiidi 
dim  forebodings,  or  question  the  past  of  the  history  of  a 
heart  now  so  loyal  to  her. 

They  were  not  rich  ; but  light  hearts  seldom  keep  com- 
pany with  heavy  coffers ; and  Elsie’s  fairy  hand  had  maa© 
their  small  house  better  worth  the  seeing,  than  many  a 
gorgeous  drawing-room  with  its  upholstery  show.  And 
for  sculpture,  she  could  show  you  a little  dhnpled  fairy, 
whose  golden  head  was  nightly  pillowed  on  her  breast, 
and  whose  match  it  were  hard  to  find  in  any  artist’s 
studio  in  the  land.  Yes,  with  Harry  by  her  side  and  her 
babe  upon  her  knee,  Elsie  defied  the  world.  Kings  and 


92 


ELSIE’S  FIRST  TRIAL 


queens  might  lord  it  where  they  liked,  — her  reign  wai 
absolute  in  her  own  little  kingdom. 


“ So  you  are  married  and  settled  since  I went  abroad,” 
said  Vincent  to  Harry ; — “ have  a nice  little  wife,  so  1 
hear ; — ‘ sown  all  your  wild  cats,’  and  made  up  your 
mind  to  be  virtuous.  Now,  I shan’t  come  to  witness 
)rour  felicity,  for  two  reasons.  Firstly,  if  your  wife  is  n’t 
pretty,  I don’t  want  to  see  her.  I think  it  ^verj  ugly 
woman’s  pious  duty  to  make  way  with  herseli  l Sec- 
ondly,  if  she  is  handsome,  I should  make  love  to  ner, 
spite  fate  or  you ; for  I ’m  neither  a ‘ non-resistant  ’ nor 
a ‘ perfectionist,’  as  you  very  well  know.  And,  thirdly, 

to  sum  up  all  I have  to  say,  your  old  ideal.  Miss , 

returned  in  the  steamer  with  me,  lovely  as  a Peri.  She 
inquired  about  you ; and,  if  your  little  wife  will  allow 
you,”  — and  a slight  sneer  curled  his  handsome  lip,  - 
**  I ’d  advise  you  to  call  on  her  ; but,  prenez  garde, 
Harry,  I defy  any  man  tc  withstand  her  witchery.  I ’m 
an  old  stager  myself,  but  she  plays  the  very  mischief  with 
my  petrified  heart,  for  all  that.” 

“ If  his  little  wife  would  let  him  ! ” It  rang  in  Harry’s 
ear  all  the  way  home.  Vincent  thought  him  already  in 
leading-strings.  That  would  never  do  ! — and  so  he  per- 
suaded himself  this  was  the  reason  he  intended  calling  on 
the  fair  Marion,  — just  to  show  Vincent  how  angelic  Elsie 


ELSIE’S  FIRST  TRIAL. 


93 


was,  and  how  far  above  such  a petty  feeling  as  jealousy. 
And  then  his  imagination  wandered  back  to  by-gone 
days,  when  a radiant  smile  of  Marion’s,  a flower  she  had 
worn  in  her  hair,  a touch  of  her  small  hand,  was  worth 
all  the  mines  of  Peru  to  him. 

“ Pshaw  ! how  foolish  ! — and  I a married  man  ! ” — 
and  he  stepped  off  briskly,  as  if  in  that  way  he  could  rid 
himself  of  such  foolish  thoughts. 

Elsie  met  him  at  the  door,  fresh  and  sweet  as  a daisy. 

'‘You  are  not  well,  Harry,”  she  said,  as  she  marked 
his  heightened  color  ; “ you ’ve  been  annoyed  with  busi- 
ness.” 

“ Not  a bit,”  said  he,  patting  her  on  the  cheek,  and 
tossing  up  his  child.  “ Not  a bit ; and  now  let ’s  have 
dinner,  for  I ’ve  a business  engagement  at  four.” 

How  absent  he  was  ! — how  abstracted  ! — he  seemed 
to  eat  just  for  the  form  of  the  thing,  although  she  had 
been  all  the  morning  preparing  his  favorite  dish.  “Never 
mind,”  said  the  gentle  little  wife  to  herself ; “he  has 
some  business  perplexity  that  he  is  too  thoughtful  to 
annoy  me  with and  she  passed  her  hand  caressingly 
?ver  his  forehead,  as  if  to  assure  him  silently  of  her 
sympathy. 

“Elsie,”  said  he,  with  a slight  heart-twinge,  “you  have 
heard  me  speak  of  Marion  Ruthven  ? Vincent  says  she 
has  returned  with  hun  in  the  steamer,  and  as  she  is  a 


94 


ELSIE’S  FIRST  TRIAL. 


stranger  in  the  city,  I feel  as  if  I must  call  on  her.  She 
'eaves  soon  for  her  brother’s  house  in  New  York.” 

Elsi<^’s  heart  throbbed  quickly,  but  she  bent  her  grace- 
ful head  very  closely  over  the  little  frock  she  was  em- 
broidering, so  that  Harry  could  not  see  the  expression  of 
her  face,  and  said,  in  her  usual  tone,  “ Don’t  apologize  to 
me,  dear  Harry,  if  you  wish  to  go.” 

“ Like  yourself,  dear  Elsie  ! ” said  he,  kissing  her 
cheek.  And  in  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  emerged 
from  his  dressing-room,  where  he  had  made  himself  very 
unnecessarily  handsome,  by  a most  careful  toilette. 

Elsie  complimented  him  on  his  appearance,  and  gave 
him  her  usual  warm-hearted  kiss  as  he  left ; and  Harry 
said  to  himself,  as  he  went  down  the  street,  “ How  glad  I 
am  she  is  not  jealous ! Some  women  would  have  made 
quite  a scene.” 

Short-sighted  Harry ! — look  back  into  that  little  room. 
The  frock  has  fallen  from  her  fingers,  and  tears  are  fall- 
ing fast  upon  it.  Now  she  paces  the  fioor.  What ! she 
jealous  of  Harry  ? 0,  no,  no  ! — but  the  bright,  dazzling 

Marion  ! — so  talented,  so  gifted,  so  fascinating  ! If 
Harry’s  old  penchant  for  her  should  return  ! 0 ! what 

had  she  to  oppose  to  all  her  witchery  ? Only  a sweet, 
childish  face,  and  a heart  whose  every  pulsation  was  love, 
love  for  him  who  had  won  it.  0,  why  did  she  ever  come 
back  ? Such  a happy  dream  as  her  wedded  life  had 
been,  thus  far  ! 


BLfelK’S  FIRST  TRIAL 


95 


O,  how  slowly  the  hours  passed,  as  she  gave  herself  up 
to  this  voluntary  self-torture  ! Harry  must  not  see  her 
thus  — no.  She  rose  and  bathed  her  eyes,  and  tried  to 
busy  herself  with  her  accustomed  occupations,  and  so  far 
succeeded,  that  when  he  sat  opposite  her  at  the  tea-table, 
that  evening,  he  was  quite  convinced  that  he  could  repeat 
his  call  without  giving  his  little  wife  a single  heart-pang. 

Poor  little,  proud  Elsie ! — he  did  n’t  know  how  you 
longed  to  throw  your  arms  about  his  neck,  and  say,  “ 0, 
never  look  on  those  bright  eyes  again,  dear  Harry  ! Be 
mine  — mine  only  ! ” 

No,  he  did  n’t  know  that ! The  spell  had  begun  to 
work,  — he  was  blinded  ! Elsie  hoped  the  fair  enchant- 
ress would  soon  leave ; but  it  was  not  so,  and  Harry 
became  more  abstracted  every  day,  although  his  manner 
still  continued  kind  as  usual. 

Elsie’s  heart  could  not  be  deceived,  it  was  not  “ busi- 
ness ” that  kept  him  so  often  from  his  hearth-stone.  No, 
she  had  twice,  thrice,  heard  him  murmur  the  bright 
stranger’s  name  in  his  dreams  But  no  word  fell  from 
her  lips  to  remind  him  of  all  this  heart- wandering.  She 
was  more  studious  than  ever  for  his  comfort.  She  never 
upbraided,  never  questioned.  He  went  and  came,  as  he 
liked.  Still  it  was  telling  fast,  this  secret  sorrow,  upon 
the  patient  little  wife.  There  was  a pallor  on  her  cheek  0 
that  told  its  own  story,  — or  would  have  done  so,  to  eyes 
blinded  than  Harry’s. 


9(5 


ELSIE  S FIRST  TRIAj.. 


Our  sorrows  are  so  lightened  by  sympathy ; but  the 
grief  that  may  not  be  spoken,— the  weight  of  trouble  that 
Render  shoulders  must  bend  under  alone,  — who  shall 
know,  save  those  who  have  borne  it  ? 

Elsie  was  alone  in  her  dressing-room,  where  she  had 
sat  for  hours,  motionless.  A sudden  thought  seemed  to 
inspire  her.  She  started  up,  bathed  her  pale  face, 
smoothed  her  sunny  ringlets,  and  arrayed  herself  with 
more  than  usual  care. 

“ That  will  be  better,”  she  murmured  to  herself,  as 
she  passed  through  the  busy  street  to  lady  Marion’s 
dwelling. 

“ I do  not  recollect,”  said  Marion,  with  a graceful 
courtesy,  and  blushing  slightly,  as  Elsie  entered. 

‘‘I  am  a stranger  to  you,”  said  Elsie,  her  silvery  voice 
tremulous  with  agitation ; and,  as  her  eye  glanced  over 
Marion’s  full,  round  figure,  with  its  queenly  grace  of 
motion,  and  noted  her  large,  bright  eyes,  and  raven  hair 
and  snowy  shoulders , she  marvelled  not  at  the  spell ! I 
am  Harry  Lee’s  wife,”  said  Elsie.  “ 0,  lady  Marion  ! 
of  all  the  hearts  your  beauty  wins,  only  one  I claim  ! 
For  God’s  sake,  do  not  wrest  it  from  me  ! Earth  would 
be  so  dark  to  me  without  my  husband’s  love  ! ” and  her 
tears  fell  fast  upon  the  fair  stranger’s  hand. 

As  God  is  my  witness,  never  ! ” said  the  impulsive 
woman,  touched  with  her  sweet  c-onfidence.  “ T wUl 


bljsie’s  first  trial. 


97 


lever  see  him  again and  she  drew  her  to  her  side  with 
i sister’s  fondness. 

“ God  bless  you  ! ” said  the  happy  Elsie.  “ An ' you 
^ill  keep  my  secret  ? ” 

“ Elsie,  ’t  is  very  odd  you  were  never  the  least  bit 
jealous  of  my  old  friend  Marion,”  said  Harry,  a few  days 
after  the  above  occurrence.  ‘‘  Very  shabby  of  her,  don  t 
you  think  so,  to  leave  town  without  even  saying  good-by 
to  me  ? NHmporte  ; my  little  wife  is  worth  a dozen  of 
her  and  Harry  kissed  her  cheek  fondly. 

E T 


A NIGHT-WATCH  WITH  A DEAD 
INFANT. 


Moorest  thou  thj  bark  so  sooii  little  voyager  ? 
Through  those  infant  eyes,  with  a prophet’s  vision, 
sawest  thou  life’s  great  battle-fi^'ld,  swarming  with  fierce 
combatants  ? Fell  upon  tb  y timid  ear  the  far-oflf  din 
of  its  angry  strife  ? Drooped  thy  head  wearily  on  the 
bosom  of  the  Sinless,  fearful  of  earth  taint  ? Fluttered 
thy  wings  impatiently  against  the  bars  of  thy  prison- 
house,  sweet  bird  of  Paradise  ? 

God  speed  thy  flight ! No  unerring  sportsman  shall 
have  power  to  ruffle  thy  spread  pinions,  or  maim  thy  soar- 
ing wing.  No  sheltering  nest  had  earth  for  thee,  where 
the  chill  wind  of  sorrow  might  not  blow  ! No  garden  of 
Eden,  where  the  serpent  lay  not  coiled  beneath  the 
‘flowers ! No  “ Tree  of  Life,”  whose  branches  might  have 
sheltered  thee  for  aye ! 

Warm  fall  the  sunlight  on  thy  grassy  pillow,  sweet 
human  bloSvSom  ! Softly  fall  the  night  dews  on  the  blue- 
eyed violet  above  thee ! Side  by  side  with  thee  are 
hearts  that  have  Img  since  ceased  hoping,  or  aching. 
There  lies  the  betrothed  maiden,  in  her  unappropriated 
love'iness;  the  bride,  with  her  head  pillowed  on  golden 


A NIGHT-WATCU  WITH  A HEAD  INEANT.  99 


tresses,  wli^se  rare  beauty  even  the  Great  Spoiler  seemed 
loth  to  touch ; childhood,  but  yesterday  warm  and  rosy 
on  its  mother^  s breast ; the  loving  wife  and  mother,  in 
life’s  sweet  prime;  the  gray-haired  pastor,  gone  to  his 
reward ; the  youth  of  crisped  locks  and  brow  unfurrowed 
by  care ; the  heart-broken  widow,  and  tearful  orphan,  — 
all  await  with  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  silent  lips 
alike  with  thee,  the  resurrection  morn. 


A PRACTICAL  BLUE-STOCKING. 


“Have  you  called  on  your  old  friend,  James  Lee, 
^mce  your  return  ? ” said  Mr.  Seldon  to  his  nephew. 

“ No,  sir ; I understand  he  has  the  misfortune  to  have 
a blue-stocking  for  a wife,  and  whenever  I have  thought 
of  going  there,  a vision  with  inky  fingers,  frowzled  hair, 
rumpled  dress,  and  slip-shod  heels  has  come  between  me 
and  my  old  friend,  — not  to  mention  thoughts  of  a dis- 
orderly house,  smoky  puddings,  and  dirty-faced  children. 
Defend  me  from  a wife  who  spends  her  time  dabbling 
in  ink,  and  writing  for  the  papers.  I’ll  lay  a wager 
James  has  n’t  a shirt  with  a button  on  it,  or  a pair  of 
stockings  that  is  not  full  of  holes.  Such  a glorious  fel- 
low as  he  used  to  be,  too!  ” said  Harry,  soliloquizingly, 
“ so  dependent  upon  somebody  to  love  him.  By  Jove, 
it ’s  a hard  case.” 

“Harry,  will  you  oblige  me  by  calling  there  ?”  said 
Mr.  Seldon  with  a peculiar  smile. 

“Well,  yes,  if  you  desire  it;  but  these  married  men 
get  so  metamorphosed  by  their  wives,  that  it ’s  a chance 
if  I recognise  the  melancholy  remains  of  my  old  friend. 
A literary  wife!”  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
oontemptuously. 


A PRACTICAL  H L IT  R - S T 0 C K T N G . 


101 


At  one  o’clock  the  next  afternoon,  Harry  might  have 
been  seen  ringing  the  bell  of  J ames  Lee’s  door.  He  had 
a very  ungracious  look  upon  his  face,  as  much  as  to  say, 
— “ My  mind  is  made  up  for  the  worst,  and  I must  bear 
it  for  Jemmy’s  sake.” 

The  servant  ushered  him  into  a pretty  little  sitting- 
room,  not  expensively  furnished,  but  neat  and  tasteful. 
At  the  further  end  of  the  room  were  some  flowering 
plants,  among  which  a sweet-voiced  canary  was  singing. 
Harry  glanced  round  the  room ; a little  light-stand  or 
Chinese  table  stood  in  the  corner,  with  pen,  ink,  and 
papers  scattered  over  it. 

“ I knew  it,”  said  Harry ; “ there ’s  the  sign ! horror  of 
horrors ! an  untidy,  slatternly  blue-stocking ! how  I shall 
he  disgusted  with  her ! Jemmy ’s  to  be  pitied.” 

He  took  up  a book  that  lay  upon  the  table,  and  a little 
manuscript  copy  of  verses  fell  from  between  the  leaves. 
He  dropped  the  book  as  if  he  had  been  poisoned ; then 
picking  up  the  fallen  manuscript  with  his  thumb  and 
forefinger,  he  replaced  it  with  an  impatient  pshaw ! Then 
he  glanced  round  the  room  again,  — no  ! there  was  not  a 
particle  of  dust  to  be  seen,  even  by  his  prejudiced  eyes ; 
the  windows  were  transparently  clean ; the  hearth-rug  was 
longitudinally  and  mathematically  laid  down ; the  pic- 
tures hung  “ plumb  ” upon  the  wall ; the  curtains  were 
fresh  and  gracefully  looped ; and,  what  was  a greater 
marvel,  there  was  a child’s  dress  half  finished  in  a dainty 


102 


A PRACTICAL  BLUE -STOCKING. 


little  work-basket,  and  a thimble  of  fairy  dimensions  in 
the  immediate  neighborhood  thereof.  Harry  felt  a per- 
verse inclination  to  examine  the  stitches,  but  at  the  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps  he  braced  himself  up  to  undergo 
his  mental  shower-bath. 

A little  lady  tripped  lightly  into  the  room,  and  stood 
smilingly  before  him ; her  glossy  black  hair  was  combed 
smoothly  behind  her  ears,  and  knotted  upon  the  back  of 
a remarkably  well-shaped  head  ; her  eyes  were  black  and 
sparkling,  and  full  of  mirth ; her  dress  fitted  charmingly 
to  a very  charming  little  figure ; her  feet  were  unexcep- 
tionably  small,  and  neatly  gaiter ed  ; the  snowy  fingers  of 
her  little  hand  had  not  the  slightest  “ soup^on  ” of  ink 
upon  them,  as  she  extended  them  in  token  of  welcome  to 
her  guest. 

Harry  felt  very  much  like  a culprit,  and  greatly  in- 
clined to  drop  on  one  knee,  and  make  a clean  breast  of  a 
confession,  but  his  evil  bachelor  spirit  whispered  in  his 
ear,  — “ Wait  a bit,  she ’s  fixed  up  for  company ; cloven 
foot  will  peep  out  by  and  by  ! 

Well,  they  sat  down ! The  lady  knew  enough,  — he 
heard  that  before  he  came ; — he  only  prayed  that  he  might 
not  be  bored  with  her  book-learning,  or  blue-stockingism. 
It  is  hardly  etiquette  to  report  private  conversations  for 
the  papers, — so  I will  only  say  that  when  James  Lee  came 
home,  two  hours  after,  he  found  his  old  friend  Harry  in 
the  finest  possible  spirits,  tete-a-tete  with  his  ‘‘  blue 


A PRACTICAL  BLUE-STOCK  TNG.  lOo 

wife.  An  invitation  to  dinner  followed.  Harry  demurred, 
— he  had  begun  to  look  at  the  little  lady  through  a very 
bewitching  pair  of  spectacles,  and  he  hated  to  be  disen- 
chanted — and  a blue-stocking  dinner  ! 

However,  his  objections,  silent  though  they  were,  were 
Dver-ruled.  There  was  no  fault  to  be  found  with  that 
t^ble-cloth,  or  those  snowy  napkins;  the  glasses  were 
clean,  the  silver  bright  as  my  lady’s  eyes ; the  meats 
cooked  to  a turn,  the  gravies  and  sauces  perfect,  and  the 
dessert  well  got  up  and  delicious.  Mrs.  Lee  presided  with 
ease  and  elegance ; the  custards  and  preserves  were  of 
her  own  mamxfaeture,  and  the  little  prattler,  who  ^as 
introduced  with  them,  fresh  from  her  nursery  bath,  with 
moist  ringlets,  snowy  robe,  and  dimpled  shoulders,  looked 
charmingly  well  cared  for. 

As  soon  as  the  two  gentlemen  were  alone,  Harry  seized 
his  friend’s  hand,  saying,  with  a half  smile,  “James,  1 
feel  like  an  unmitigated  scoundrel ! I have  heard  your 
wife  spoken  of  as  a ‘ blue-stocking,’  and  I came  here  pre- 
pared to  pity  you  as  the  victim  of  an  unshared  heart, 
slatternly  house,  and  indigestible  cooking ; but  may  I die 
an  old  bachelor  if  I don’t  wish  that  woman,  who  has  just 
gone  out,  was  my  wife.” 

J ames  Lee’s  eyes  moistened  with  gratified  pride.  “ Yoi 
don’t  know  half,”  said  he.  “ Listen  ; — some  four  year, 
since  I became  involved  in  business ; at  the  same  time  my 
health  failed  me  ; my  spirits  were  broken,  and  1 was  get- 


104 


A PRACTICAL  B L U E - ft T 0 C K I N G . 


ting  a discouraged  man.  Emma,  unknown  to  m made 
application  as  a writer  to  several  papers  and  magazines 
She  soon  became  very  popular ; and  not  long  after  placed 
in  my  hands  the  sum  of  three  hundred  dollars,  the  prod- 
uct of  her  labor.  During  this  time,  no  parental  or 
household  duty  was  neglected  ; and  her  cheerful  and 
steady  affection  raise*!  my  drooping  spirits,  and  gave  me 
fresh  courage  to  commence  the  world  anew.  She  still 
continues  to  write,  although,  as  you  see,  my  head  is  above 
water.  Thanks  tG  her  as  my  guardian  angel,  for  she  says, 
‘ We  must  lay  up  something  for  a rainy  day.’  God  bless 
her  sunshiny  ^ce  ! ” 

The  entrance  of  &iima  put  a stop  to  any  further 
eulogy,  and  Harry  took  his  leave  in  a very  indescribable 
and  penitential  frapie  of  mind,  doing  ample  penance  for 
his  former  unbelieving  seruples,  by  being  very  uncom 
fortably  in  love  with  a “ Blue-Stocking. 


THE  LITTLE  PAUPER. 


It  is  only  a little  pauper.  Never  mind  her.  You  see 
she  knows  her  place  and  keeps  close  to  the  wall,  as  if  she 
expected  an  oath  or  a blow.  The  cold  winds  are  making 
merry  with  those  thin  rags.  You  see  nothing  of  child- 
hood’s rounded  symmetry  in  those  shrunken  limbs  and 
pinched  features.  Push  her  one  side,  — she ’s  used  to  it, 
— she  won’t  complain  ; she  can’t  remember  that  she  ever 
neard  a kind  word  in  her  life.  She  ’d  think  you  were 
mocking  if  you  tried  it. 

She  passes  into  the  warm  kitchen,  savory  with  odorous 
dainties,  and  is  ordered  out  with  a threat  by  the  portly 
cook.  In  the  shop  windows  she  sees  nice  fresh  loaves  of 
bread,  and  tempting  little  cakes.  Rosy  little  children 
pass  her  on  their  way  to  school,  well-fed,  well-clad  and 
joyous,  with  a mother’s  parting  kiss  yet  warm  on  their 
sweet  lips. 

There  seems  to  be  happiness  enough  in  the  world,  but 
it  never  comes  to  her.  Her  little  basket  is  quite  empty ; 
and  now,  faint  with  hunger,  she  leans  wearily  against 
that  shop  window.  There  is  a lovely  lady,  who  has  just 
passed  in.  She  is  buying  cakes  and  hon-hon^  for  her 
E* 


106 


THE  LITTLE  PAEPER. 


little  girl,  as  if  she  had  the  purse  of  Fortunatus.  How 
nice  it  must  be  to  be  warm,  and  have  enough  to  eat ! 
Poor  Meta ! She  has  tasted  nothing  since  she  was  sent 
forth  with  a curse  in  the  morning,  to  beg  or  steal ; and 
the  tears  will  come.  There  is  happiness  and  plenty  in 
tlie  world,  but  none  for  Meta  ! 

Not  so  fast,  little  one  ! Warm  hearts  beat  sometimes 
under  silk  and  velvet.  That  lady  has  caught  sight  of 
your  little  woe-begone  face  and  shivering  form.  0, 
what  if  it  were  her  child  ! And,  obeying  a sweet  mater- 
nal impulse,  she  passes  out  the  door,  takes  those  little 
benumbed  fingers  in  her  daintily  gloved  hands,  and  leads 
the  child,  — wondering,  shy  and  bewildered,  — - into  fairy 
land. 

A delightful  and  novel  sensation  of  warmth  creeps  over 
those  frozen  limbs ; a faint  color  tinges  the  pale  cheeks, 
and  the  eyes  grow  liquid  and  lovely,  as  Meta  raises  them 
thankfully  to  her  benefactress.  The  lady’s  little  girl  looks 
on  with  an  innocent  joy,  and  learns,  for  the  first  time,  how 
“ blessed  are  the  merciful.” 

And  then  Meta  passes  out,  with  a heavy  basket,  and 
a light  heart.  Surely  the  street  has  grown  wider,  and 
the  sky  brighter  ! This  can  scarcely  be  the  same  world  ! 
Meta’s  form  is  erect  now  ; her  step  light,  as  a child’s 
should  be.  The  sunshine  of  human  love  has  brightened 
bor  pathway  ! Ah,  Meta  I — earth  is  not  all  darkness 
\>right  angels-  yet  walk  the  earth.  Sweet-voiced  Pit^ 


THE  LITTLE  PAUPER. 


107 


and  heaven-ejed  Charity  sometiraes  stoop  to  bless. 
God’s  image  is  only  marred,  not  destroyed.  He  who 
feeds  the  ravens,  bends  to  listen.  Look  upward  little 
Meta  ! 


EDITH  MAY; 


OR,  THE  MISTAKE  OF  A LIFE-TIME 

A lover’s  quarrel ! A few  hasty  words,  — a forma: 
parting  between  two  hearts,  that  neither  time  nor  dis* 
tance  could  ever  disunite,  — then,  a lifetime  of  misery  ! 

Edith  May  stood  before  me  in  her  bridal  dress.  The 
world  was  to  be  made  to  believe  she  was  happy  and  heart- 
whole.  I knew  better.  I knew  that  no  woman,  who  had 
once  loved  Gilbert  Ainslie,  could  ever  forget  him, — least 
of  all,  such  a heart  as  Edith’s.  She  was  pale  as  a snow- 
wreath,  and  bent  her  head  gracefilly  as  a water  lily,  in 
recognition  of  her  numerous  friends  and  admirers. 

“ What  a sacrifice ! ” the  latter  murmured,  between 
their  set  teeth  ! “ What  a sacrifice  ! ” my  heart  echoed 

oack.  • 

Mr.  Jefferson  Jones  was  an  ossified  old  bachelor.  He 
nad  but  one  idea  in  his  head,  and  that  was,  to  make 
money.  There  was  only  one  tiling  he  understood  equally 
well,  and  that  was,  to  keep  it.  He  was  angular,  prim, 
cold  and  precise  ; mean,  grovelling,  contemptible  and 
cunning. 

And  Edith  ! — our  peerless  Edith,  whose  lovers  were 


KDITH  MAY. 


109 


‘ legion,” — Edith,  with  her  passionate  heart,  her  beauty, 
grace,  taste  and  refinement,  — Edith,  to  vow  love  and 
honor  ” to  such  a soulless  block ! It  made  me  shudder 
to  think  of  it ! I felt  as  though  his  very  gaze  were  pro- 
fanation. 

Well,  the  wedding  was  over ; and  she  was  duly  in- 
stalled mistress  of  Jefferson  House.  She  had  fine  dresses, 
fine  furniture,  a fine  equipage,  and  the  stupidest  possible 
incumbrance,  in  the  shape  of  a husband. 

Mr.  J eff erson  J ones  was  very  proud  of  his  bride  ; — 
firstly,  because  she  added  to  his  importance ; secondly, 
because  he  plumed  himself  not  a little  in  bearing  off  so 
dainty  a prize.  It  gave  him  a malicious  pleasure  to  meet 
ner  old  admirers,  with  the  graceful  Edith  upon  his  arm. 
Of  course  she  preferred  him  to  them  all ; else,  why  did 
she  marry  him  ? 

Then,  how  deferential  she  was  in  her  manner  since 
their  marriage ; how  very  polite,  and  how  careful  to  per- 
form her  duty  to  the  letter  ! Mr.  Jones  decided,  with  his 
usual  acumen,  that  there  was  no  room  for  a doubt,  on 
that  point ! He  noticed,  indeed,  that  her  girlish  gayety 
was  gone ; but  that  was  a decided  improvement,  accord- 
ing to  his  view.  She  was  Mrs.  J ones  now,  and  meant  to 
keep  all  whiskered  popinjays  at  a respectful  distance. 
He  liked  it ! 

And  so,  through  those  interminable  evenings,  Edith 
sat,  playing  long,  stupid  games  of  chess  with  him,  or 


110 


EDITH  may;  ok, 


listening  (?)  to  his  gains  or  losses,  in  the  way  of  trade ; or 
reading  political  articles,  of  which  the  words  conveyed  nc 
ideas  to  her  absent  mind. 

She  walked  through  the  busy  streets,  leaning  on  his 
arm,  with  an  unseen  form  ever  at  her  side  ; and  slept  — 
Grod  forgive  her  ! — next  his  heart,  when  hers  was  far 
away ! But  when  she  was  alone,  — no  human  eye  to 
read  her  sad  secret,  her  small  hands  clasped  in  agony, 
and  her  fair  head  bent  to  the  very  dust,  — was  he  not 
avenged  ? 


It  was  a driving  storm ; — Mr.  Jones  concluded  to  dine 
at  a restaurant  instead  of  returning  home.  He  had  just 
seated  himself,  and  given  his  orders  to  the  obsequious 
waiter,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  conver- 
sation of  two  gentlemen  near  him. 

“ Have  you  seen  la  belle  Edith,  since  her  marriage ^ 
Harry  ? ” 

“ No  : I feel  too  much  vexed  with  her.  Such  a splen- 
Qid  specimen  of  flesh  and  blood  to  marry  such  an  idiot ! 
All  for  a foolish  quarrel  with  Ainslie.  You  never  saw 
such  a wreck  as  it  has  made  of  him.  However,  she  is 
well  punished  ; for,  with  all  her  consummate  tact  and 
efibrt  to  keep  up  appeara^aces,  it  is  very  plain  that  she 
is  the  most  miserable  woman  in  existence  ; as  Mr.  J effer- 
son  Jones,  whom  I have  never  seen,  might  perceive,  if 


TH£  MISTAKJB  OF  A jbl  F - T 1 M B . 


J]1 


be  was  n’t,  as  all  the  world  says,  the  very  prince  of 
donkeys.” 

Jones  seized  his  hat,  and  rushed  into  the  open  air, 
tugging  at  his  neck-tie  as  if  he  were  choking.  Six  times 
he  went,  like  a comet,  round  the  square ; then,  settling 
his  beaver  down  over  I is  eyes,  in  a very  prophetic  man- 
ner, he  turned  his  footsteps  deliberately  homeward.  It 
was  but  the  deceitful  calm  before  the  whirlwind ! 

He  found  Edith,  calm,  pale,  and  self-possessed,  as 
usual.  He  was  quite  as  much  so  himself,  — even  went  so 
far  as  to  compliment  her  on  a coquettish  little  jacket  that 
fitted  her  round  figure  very  charmingly. 

“ I ’m  thinking  of  taking  a short  journey,  Edith,”  said 
he,  seating  himself  by  her  side,  and  playing  with  the 
silken  cord  and  tassels  about  her  waist.  “ As  it  is  wholly 
a business  trip,  it  would  hamper  me  to  take  you  with  me ; 
but  you  ’ll  hear  from  me.  Meanwhile,  you  know  ho 
amuse  yourself,  hey,  Edith  ? ” 

He  looked  searchingly  in  her  face.  There  was  no 
conscious  blush,  no  change  of  expression,  no  tremor  of 
the  frame.  He  might  as  well  have  addressed  a marble 
statue. 

'Mr.  Jefferson  Jones  was  posed!  Well,  he  bade  her 
one  of  his  characteristic  adieus  ; and  when  the  door 
closed,  Edith  felt  as  if  a mountain  weight  had  been  lifted 
off  her  heart.  There  was  but  one  course  for  her  to  pur- 
sue. She  knew  it : — she  had  already  marked  it  out. 


112 


EDITH  may;  ok, 


She  would  deny  herseii*  to  all  visitors,  — she  would  not 
go  abroad  till  her  husband’s  return.  She  was  strong  in 
her  purpose.  There  should  be  no  door  left  open  for  busy 
scandal  to  enter.  Of  Ainslie  she  knew  nothing,  save 
that  a letter  reached  her  from  him  after  her  marriage 
which  she  had  returned  unopened. 

And  so  she  wandered  restlessly  through  those  splendid 
rooms,  and  tried,  by  this  self-inflicted  penance,  to  atone 
for  the  defection  of  her  heart.  Did  she  take  her  guitar, 
old  songs  they  had  sang  together  came  unbidden  to  her 
lips ; — that  book,  too,  they  had  read.  0,  it  was  all 
misery,  turn  where  she  would  ! 

Day  after  day  passed  by,  — no  letter  from  Mr.  J ones  ! 
The  time  had  already  passed  that  was  fixed  upon  for  his 
return  ; and  Edith,  nervous  from  close  confinement  and 
the  weary  inward  struggle,  started  like  a frightened  bird, 
jjLevery  footfall. 

^^t  came  at  last  — the  letter  — sealed  with  black  ! “ He 
had  been  accidentally  drowned.  His  hat  was  found ; all 
search  for  the  body  had  been  unavailing.” 

Edith  was  no  hypocrite.  She  coaid  not  mourn  for 
him,  save  in  the  outward  garb  of  v oe ; but  now  that 
he  was  dead,  conscience  did  its  office.  She  had  not 
in  the  eye  of  the  world,  been  untrue ; but  there  is  an 
Eye  that  searches  deeper  ! — that  scans  thoughts  as  welJ 
as  actions. 

Ainslie  was  just  starting  for  the  continent,  by  order  of 


TUB  MISTAKE  OF  A LIFE- TIME. 


113 


a physician,  when  the  news  reached  him.  A brief  time 
he  gave  to  decorum,  and  then  they  met.  It  is  needless 
to  say  what  that  meeting  was.  Days  and  months  of 
wretchedness  were  forgotten,  like  some  dreadful  dream. 
She  was  again  his  own  Edith,  sorrowing,  repentant  and 
happy. 

They  were  sitting  together  one  evening,  — Edith’s  head 
was  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  face  radiant  as  a seraph’s. 
They  were  speaking  of  their  future  home. 

“ Any  spot  on  the  wide  earth  but  this,  dear  Ainslie. 
Take  me  away  from  these  painful  associations.” 

“ Say  you  so,  pretty  Edith  ? ” said  a well-known  voice 
‘‘  I but  tried  that  faithful  heart  of  yours,  to  prove  it ! 
Fity  to  turn  such  a pretty  comedy  into  a tragedy ; but  1 
happen  to  be  manager  here,  young  man  ! ” said  Mr. 
Jones,  turning  fiercely  toward  the  horror-struck  Ainslie. 

The  revulsion  was  too  dreadfiil.  Edith  sui'vived  but  a 
week.  Ainslie  oecame  hopelessly  insane. 

8 


M A^BEL’S  SOLILOQUY. 


This  is  a heartless  life  to  lead,”  said  Mabel  Gray,  as 
she  unbanded  her  long  hair,  and  laid  aside  her  rich  robe. 
“ It  is  a life  one  might  lead,  were  there  no  life  beyond 
When  I left  the  heated  ball-room  to-night,  the  holy  stars, 
keeping  their  tireless  watch,  sent  a thrill  through  me ; — 
and  the  little  prayer  I used  to  say  at  my  dead  mother’s 
knee  came  unbidden  to  my  lip.  There ’s  Letty,  now ; — 
she ’s  happier  than  her  mistress.  Come  here,  child  ; — 
unbraid  my  hair,  and  sing  me  that  little  Methodist  hymn 
of  yours, 

‘ Jesus,  I my  cross  have  taken.’ 

“ That  will  do,  — thank  you,  child,  — now  you  may  gc 
What  a sweet  voice  she  has  ! Either  that,  or  my  tears, 
have  eased  my  heart.  I ’m  too  restless  to  sleep.  How 
softly  the  moon-light  falls  to-night ! — and  years  hence 
when  these  myriad  sleepers  shall  have  sunk  to  their 
dreamless  rest,  earth  will  still  be  as  fair,  the  silver  moon 
will  ride  on  as  triumphantly.  How  many  sad  hearts  she 
looks  down  upon  to-night ; and  never  a thanksgiving  has 
gone  up  from  my  lips  for  countless  blessings  ! Soft  sleep 
with  balmy  touch  has  closed  these  thankless  eyes ; the 


Mabel’s  soliloquy. 


115 


warm,  fresh  blood  of  youth  and  health  has  flowed  on, 
unchecked  by  disease.  I have  sat  at  the  table  of  ‘Dives,’ 
while  ‘ Lazarus  ’ has  starved  at  the  gate.  The  gold  and 
purple  robe  of  sunset  has  been  woven  for  me ; the  blue 
vault  of  heaven  arched  over  my  head ; the  ever-changing, 
fleecy  cloud  has  gone  drifting  by ; the  warm  sunlight  has 
kissed  open  the  flowers  I love ; the  green  moss  has  spread 
a carpet  for  my  careless  foot ; and  I have  revelled  in  all 
this  beauty  and  luxury  — God  forgive  me  ! — unmindful 
of  the  Giver.” 

Dear  reader,  shall  it  be  only  at  “ Bethesda’s  Pool  ” 
that  you  seek  your  Benefactor  ? While  your  life-cup 
overflows  with  blessings,  when  the  warm  blood  coursep 
swiftly,  shall  there  come  no  generous  response  to  tha'^ 
-'till  small  7oice,  “ Jesus  of  Nazareth  passeth  by  ? 


HOW  HUSBANDS  MAY  RULE. 


Dear  Mary,”  said  Harry to  his  little  wife, 

“ [ Have  a favor  to  ask  of  you.  You  have  a friend  whom 
I dislike  very  much,  and  who  I am  quite  sure  will  make 
tiouble  between  us.  Will  you  give  up  Mrs.  May  for  my 
sake,  Mary  ? ” 

A slight  shade  of  vexation  crossed  Mary’s  pretty  face, 
as  she  said,  “ You  are  unreasonable,  Harry.  She  is  lady- 
like, refined,  intellectual,  and  fascinating,  is  she  not  ? ” 

“ Yes,  all  of  that ; and,  for  that  very  reason,  her  influ- 
ence over  one  so  yielding  and  impulsive  as  yourself  is 
more  to  be  dreaded,  if  unfavorable.  I ’m  quite  in 
earnest,  Mary.  I could  wish  never  to  see  you  together 
again.” 

“ Pshaw ! dear  Harry,  that ’s  going  too  far.  Don’t  be 
disagreeable;  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  As  old 
Uncle  Jeff  says,  ‘ How ’s  trade  ? * ” and  she  looked  archly 
in  his  face. 

Harry  did  n’t  smile. 

“Well,”  said  the  little  wife,  turning  away,  and  pattk^ 
her  foot  nervously,  “ I don’t  see  how  I can  break  with 
her,  Harry,  for  a whim  of  yours ; besides,  I ’ve  promised 
to  go  there  this  very  evening.” 


h:>w  husband?  may  rule. 


117 


Harry  made  no  reply,  and  in  a few  moments  was  on  his 
way  to  his  office. 

Mary  stood  behind  the  curtain,  and  looked  after  him 
as  he  went  down  the  street.  There  was  an  uncomfortable, 
stifling  sensation  in  her  throat,  and  something  very  like  a 
tear  glittering  in  her  eye.  Harry  was  vexed,  — she  was 
sure  of  that;  he  had  gone  off,  for  the  first  time  since 
their  marriage,  without  the  affectionate  good-by  that  was 
usual  with  him,  even  when  they  parted  but  for  an  hour  or 
two.  And  so  she  wandered,  restless  and  unhappy,  into 
her  little  sleeping-room. 

It  was  quite  a little  gem.  There  were  statuettes,  and 
pictures,  and  vases,  all  gifts  from  him  either  before  or 
since  their  marriage ; each  one  had  a history  of  its  own, 
— some  tender  association  connected  with  Harry.  There 
was  a bouquet,  still  fresh  and  fragrant,  that  he  had  pur- 
chased on  his  way  home,  the  day  before,  to  gratify  her 
passion  for  flowers.  There  was  a choice  edition  of  Poems 
they  were  reading  together  the  night  before,  with  Mary’s 
name  written  on  the  leaf,  in  Harry’s  bold,  handsome 
hand.  Turn  where  she  would,  some  proof  of  his  devotion 
met  her  eye.  But  Mrs.  May ! She  was  so  smart  and 
satirical ! She  would  make  so  much  sport  of  her,  for 
being  “ ruled  ” so  by  Harry ! Had  n’t  she  told  him 
“ all  the  men  were  tyrants,”  and  this  was  Harry’s  first 
attempt  to  govern  her.  No,  no,  it  would  n’t  do  for  her 
to  yield. 


118 


HOW  HUSBANDS  MAY  RUDE. 


So  the  pretty  evening  dress  was  taken  out ; the  trinv 
mings  readjusted,  and  re-modelled,  and  all  the  little  et- 
ceteras of  her  toilette  decided.  Yes,  she  would  go ; she 
had  quite  made  up  her  mind  to  that.  Then  she  opened 
her  jewel-case  ; a little  note  fell  at  her  feet.  She  knew 
the  contents  very  well.  It  was  from  Harry, — slipped 
slyly  into  her  hand  on  her  birth-day,  with  that  pretty 
bracelet.  It  could  n’t  do  any  harm  to  read  it  again.  It 
was  very  lover-like  for  a year  old  husband ; but  she  liked 
it ! Dear  Harry  ! and  she  folded  it  back,  and  sat  down, 
more  unhappy  than  ever,  with  her  hands  crossed  in  her 
lap,  and  her  mind  in  a most  pitiable  state  of  irresolution. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  Harry  was  right  about  Mrs.  May  ; 
and  if  he  was  n’t,  one  hair  of  his  head  was  worth  more  to 
her  than  all  the  women  in  the  world.  He  had  never  said 
one  unkind  word  to  her, — never  ! He  had  anticipated 
every  wish.  He  had  been  so  attentive  and  solicitous 
when  she  was  ill.  How  could  she  grieve  him  ? 

Love  conquered  ! The  pretty  robe  was  folded  away, 
the  jewels  returned  to  their  case,  and,  with  a light  heart, 
Mary  sat  down  to  await  her  husband’s  return. 

The  lamps  were  not  lit  in  the  drawing-room,  when 
Harry  came  up  the  street.  She  had  gone,  then  ! — after 
all  he  had  said  ! He  passed  slowly  through  the  hall, 
entered  the  dark  and  deserted  room,  and  threw  himself 
on  the  sofa  with  a heavy  sigh.  He  was  not  angry,  but 
he  was  grieved  and  disappointed.  The  first  doubt  tha^ 


HOW  HUSBANDS  MAY  HOLE. 


119 


creeps  over  the  mind,  of  the  affection  of  one  we  love,  is 
so  very  painful. 

Dear'  Harry ! ” said  a welcome  voice  at  his  side. 
“God  bless  you,  Mary!’^  said  the  happy  husband; 
“ you  Ve  saved  me  from  a keen  sorrow  I ” 

Dear  reader,  — won’t  you  tell  ? — there  are  some  hus- 
oands  worth  all  the  sacrifices  a loving  heart  can  make  ’ 


LITTLE  CHARLEY. 


It  is  hard  to  lie  upon  a bed  of  sickness,  even  though 
that  bed  be  of  down.  Nauseous,  too,  is  the  healing- 
draught,  though  sipped  from  a silver  cup,  held  by  a 
loving  hand.  Wearisome  are  the  days  and  nights,  ever 
with  the  speaking  eye  of  love  over  your  pillow.  But  what 
if  the  hand  of  disease  lie  heavily  on  the  poor  ? What  if 
the  “ barrel  of  meal  and  cruse  of  oil  ” fail  ? What  if 
emaciated  limbs  shiver  under  a tattered  blanket  ? What 
if  lips,  parched  with  fever,  mutely  beg  for  a permitted 
but  unattainable  luxury  ? What  if  the  tones  of  the 
voice  be  never  modulated  to  the  delicately  sensitive  ear  ? 
What  if  at  every  inlet  of  the  soul  come  sights  and 
sounds  harsh  and  dissonant?  Ah!  who  shall  measure 
the  sufferings  of  the  sick  poor  ? 

Dear  little  Charley ! you  were  as  much  out  of  place,  in 
that  low,  dark,  wretched  room,  as  an  angel  could  well  be 
on  earth.  Meekly,  in  the  footsteps  of  Him  who  loveth 
little  children,  were  those  tiny  feet  treading.  Patiently, 
unmurmuringly,  uncomplainingly,  were  those  racking  pains 
endured.  A tear,  a contraction  of  the  brow,  a slight, 
involuntary  clasping  of  the  attenuated  fingers,  were  the 


LITTLE  CHARLEY. 


121 


only  visible  signs  of  agony.  What  a joy  to  sit  beside 
him,  — to  take  that  little  feverish  hand  in  mine,  — to 
smooth  that  rumpled  pillow,  — to  part  the  tangled  locks 
on  that  transparent  forehead,  — to  learn  of  one,  of  whom 
the  Saviour  says,  “ Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven ! 
But  never  did  I bless  Grod  so  fully,  so  gratefully,  for  the 
gift  of  song,  as  when,  with  that  little,  sensitive  heart 
held  close  to  mine,  I made  him  forget  his  pain  by  some 
simple  strain.  I had  sung  for  my  own  amusement ; 1 
had  sung  when  dazzling  lights,  and  fairy  forms,  and  festal 
hours,  were  inspiration ; but  never  with  such  a zest,  and 
with  such  a thrill  of  happiness,  as  when,  in  that  wretched 
room,  I soothed  the  sufferings  of  “little  Charley.”  The 
garland-crowned  prima  donna^  with  half  the  world  at  her 
feet,  might  have  envied  me  the  tightened  clasp  of  that 
little  hand,  the  suffused,  earnest  gaze  of  that  speaking 
eye,  and  that  half- whispered,  plaintive,  — “ One  more ! 
Charley  is  so  happy  now ! ” 

Ay ! Charley  is  happy  now ! Music,  such  as  only  the 
blessed  hear,  fills  his  soul  with  rapture.  Never  a dis- 
cordant note  comes  from  the  harp  swept  by  that  cherub 
hand,  while  forever  that  majestic  anthem  rolls  on,  ip 
which  his  infant  voice  is  joining,  — “ Worthy  the  Lamb.’ 
F 


THE  LOST  AND  THE  LIVING. 


“ Tlie  husband’s  tears  may  be  few  and  brief. 

He  may  woo  and  win  another  ; 

But  the  daugitter  clings  in  unchanging  grief 
To  the  image  of  her  mother  ! 

But  a fleeting  twelvemonth  had  passed  since  the  heart, 
that  for  years  had  beat  against  his  own,  was  forever 
stilled,  when  Walter  Lee  brought  again  a fair  young 
creature  to  share  his  widowed  home.  Nor  father  nor 
mother,  brother  nor  sister,  claimed  any  part  of  the  orphan 
heart  that  he  coveted  and  won.  No  expense  or  pains 
lad  he  spared  to  decorate  the  mansion  for  her  reception 
Old  familiar  objects,  fraught  with  tenderest  associations, 
had  been  removed,  to  make  way  for  the  upholsterer^s 
choicest  fancies.  There  was  no  picture  left  upon  the 
wall,  with  sweet,  sad,  mournful  eyes,  to  follow  him  with 
silent  reproach.  Everything  was  fresh  and  delightful  as 
the  new-born  joy  that  filled  his  heart. 

“ My  dear  Edith,”  said  he,  fondly  pushing  back  the 
hair  from  her  forehead,  “ there  should  be  no  shadow  in 
your  pathway,  but  I have  tried  in  vain  to  induce  Nelly 
to  give  you  the  welcome  you  deserve ; however,  she  shall 


THE  LOST  AND  THE  LIVING. 


123 


4tmoy  you.  I shall  compel  her  to  stay  in  the  nursery 
till  she  yields  to  my  wishes.” 

O,  no ! don’t  do  that,”  said  the  young  step-mother 
anxiously  ; “ I think  I understand  her.  Let  me  go  to 
her,  dear  Walter;”  and  she  tripped  lightly  out  of  the 
room. 

Walter  Lee  looked  after  her  retreating  figure  with  a 
lover-like  fondness.  The  room  seemed  to  him  to  grow 
suddenly  darker,  when  the  door  closed  after  her.  Beach- 
ing out  his  hand,  he  almost  unconsciously  took  up  a book 
that  lay  near  him.  A slip  of  paper  fluttered  out  from 
between  the  leaves,  like  a white-winged  messenger.  The 
joyous  expression  of  his  face  faded  into  one  of  deep  sor- 
row, as  he  read  it.  The  hand-writing  was  his  child’s 
mother’s.  It  ran  thus : — 

“ O,  to  die,  and  be  forgotten ! This  warm  heart  cold 
— these  active  limbs  still  — these  lips  dust ! Suns  to 
rise  and  set,  flowers  to  bloom,  the  moon  to  silver  leaf  and 
tree  around  my  own  dear  home, — the  merry  laugh,  the 
pleasant  circle,  and  I not  there ! The  weeds  choking  the 
flowers  at  my  head-stone ; the  severed  tress  of  sunny  hair 
forgotten  in  its  envelope ; the  sun  of  happiness  so  soon 
absorbing  the  dew-drop  of  sorrow ! The  cypress  changed 
for  the  orange  wreath ! O,  no,  no,  don’t  quite  forget ! 
close  your  eyes  sometimes,  and  bring  before  you  the  face 
that  once  made  sunshine  in  your  home ! feel  again  the 


124 


THE  LOST  AND  THE  LIVING. 


twining  clasp  of  loving  arms ; the  lips  that  told  yon  — 
not  in  words  — how  dear  you  were.  0,  Walter,  don’t 
quite  forget ! From  Nelly’s  clear  eyes  let  her  mother’s 
soul  still  speak  to  you.  Mary  Lee.” 

Warm  tears  fell  upon  the  paper  as  Walter  Lee  folded 
it  back.  He  gave  himself  time  to  rally,  and  then  glided 
gently  up  to  the  nursery  door.  It  was  partially  open. 
A little  fairy  creature  of  some  five  summers  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  Her  tiny  face  was  half  hidden  in 
sunny  curls.  Her  little  pinafore  was  full  of  toys,  which 
she  grasped  tightly  in  either  hand. 

No,  you  are  not  my  mamma,”  said  the  child.  “ I want 
my  own,  dead  mamma,  and  I ’m  sorry  papa  brought  you 
here.” 

“ 0,  don’t  say  that ! ” said  the  young  step-mother , 
“ don’t  call  me  ‘ mamma,’  if  it  gives  you  pain,  dear.  I 
am  quite  willing  you  should  love  your  own  mamma  best.” 

Nelly  looked  up  with  a pleased  surprise. 

“ I had  a dear  mamma  and  papa  once,”  she  continued, 
“ and  brothers  and  sisters  so  many,  and  so  merry ! but 
they  are  all  dead,  and  sometimes  my  heart  is  very  sad ; 
I have  no  one,  now,  to  love  me,  but  your  papa  and  you.” 

Nelly’s  eyes  began  to  moisten ; and  taking  out  one 
after  another  of  the  little  souvenirs  and  toys  from  her 
pinafore,  she  said,  And  you  won’t  take  away  this  — 
and  this  — and  this  — that  my  dead  mamma  gave  me  ? ” 


UHE  LOST  AND  THE  LIVING. 


125 


No,  indeed,  dear  Nelly  ! ” 

“ And  you  will  let  me  climb  in  my  papa’s  lap,  as  I 
used ; and  put  my  cheek  to  his,  and  kiss  him  ? and  love 
him  as  much  as  I ever  can,  won’t  you  ? ” 

“Yes,  yes,  my  darling.” 

Walter  Lee  could  hear  no  more,  — his  heart  was  full. 

What!  Mary’s  child  pleading  with  a stranger  for 
room  in  a father’s  heart ! In  the  sudden  gush  of  this 
new  fount  of  tenderness,  had  he  forgotten  or  overlooked 
the  claims  of  that  helpless  little  one  ? God  forbid ! 
“ From  Nelly’s  clear  eyes  let  her  mother’s  soul  still 
speak  to  you.”  Ay ! it  did  ! 

When  next  Walter  Lee  met  \n&  young  bride,  it  was 
with  a chastened  tenderness.  Nelly’s  loving  little  heart 
was  pressed  closely  against  his  own.  He  was  agam  * tier 
own  papa  ’ ” No,  he  did  not  quite  forget ! ” 


ON  A LITTLE  CHILD 


WHO  HAD  CREPT  BEFORE  A LOOKING-GLASS  THAT  WAS  LEFT 
UPON  THE  SIDEWALK. 

What  do  you  see,  pretty  one  ? Large,  wondering 
blue  eyes ; a tangled  mass  of  sunny  curls ; small,  pear]}^ 
teeth ; plump,  white  shoulders,  that  the  ragged  dress  has 
failed  to  hide  ! Saw  you  never  that  little  face  before  ? 
A smile  of  innocent  pleasure  curls  your  lip  ; — ah  ! you 
have  found  out,  that  little  face  is  fair  ! Poor  and  beau- 
tiful — holy  angels  shield  you,  little  one  ! I look  at  you 
with  a tear  and  a smile.  Shall  sin  cast  its  dark  shadow 
over  those  clear,  pure  eyes  ? Shall  the  hollow-hearted 
sensualist  find  you  out  ? Shall  you  turn  from  homely, 
but  honest  toil,  to  honeyed  words  and  liveried  shame  ? 
Shall  you  curse  the  day  you  first  crept  to  that  mirror, 
and  saw  your  sunny  face  ? 

0,  heard  you  never  of  Him  who  biddeth  “ little  chil- 
dren come  ? In  your  dark  and  noisome  home,  heard 
you  never  the  name  of  J esus,”  save  from  blasphemous 
lips  ? Closed  those  blue  eyes  never  with  a murmured 
“ Our  Father  ? ’’  Have  the  rough  grasp  and  brutal  blow 
descended  on  that  fair  young  head  ? Has  daily  bread 


ON  A LITTLE  CHILL 


127 


eome  sparingly  to  those  cherry  lips  ? Crept  you  out  into 
the  warm  sunlight,  under  the  bright  blue  sky,  with  a bird’s 
longing  to  soar  ? 

Soar  you  may,  pretty  one  ; — there ’s  a'**  song,”  an 'I 
a “harp,”  and  a “white  robe”  for  you!  Just  such  as 
you  were  “ blessed  ” with  holy  hands ; sacred  lips  have 
said,  “ Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.”  God  seep 
you  undefiled,  little  earth  pilgrim ! 


KITTY^S  RESOLVE. 


It  wo  aid  puzzle  a Philadelphia  lawyer  to  tell  why 
Kitty  Gray  looks  so  serious  as  she  sits  by  her  latticed 
window  this  bright  summer  morning.  Is  she  not  the  un- 
disputed belle  of ? — adored  by  the  young  men, 

envied  by  the  girls,  who  try  in  vain  to  find  out  the  spell 
by  which  she  monopolizes  all  hearts.  Has  she,  at  las\ 
found  one  insensible  mortal,  cold-hearted  enough  to  re- 
sist all  love’s  artillery  ? That  would  be  a novelty  for 
Kitty  ! Has  she  detected  a gray  hair  stealing  in  among 
her  tresses,  or  an  incipient  crow’s-foot  at  the  corner  of 
her  eye  ? Banish  the  thought,  at  sweet  eighteen  ! 

Mirror  never  refiected  back  lovelier  tresses,  brighter 
eyes,  a fairer  brow,  or  more  symmetrical  form.  The  hand 
her  cheek  rests  on  is  faultless,  and  her  foot  is  as  perfect 
as  a model.  'Ah,  Miss  Kitty,  you  were  cut  out  for  a 
coquette,  but  spoilt  in  the  making!  Nature  gave  you  a 
heart.  You  are  neither  making  a female  Alexander  of 
yourself  by  sighing  for  fresh  hearts  to  conquer,  nor  consid- 
ering profoundly  the  fashion  of  your  next  ball-dress.  You 
have  lived  eighteen  years  in  this  blessed  world,  and  your 
life  has  been  all  sunshine.  Why  not  ? 

Beauty  and  wealth  have  made  you  omnipotent;  bnt 


UITTY  g RESOLVE 

you  are  weary  of  your  crown.  My  little  queen  has  on 
her  “ thinking  cap,”  and  it  becomes  that  sweet  brow 
passing  well.  She  wonders,  “ Is  this  all  of  life  ? ” Has 
a pretty  woman  nothing  to  do  but  smile  and  look  capti- 
vating. and  admire  herself?  She  might  as  well  be  the 
marble  Venus  in  her  dressing-room ! And  then  she 
casts  her  mental  eye  over  the  circle  of  her  acquaintance. 
For  aught  she  sees,  they  are  quite  satisfied  with  the  same 
Dutterfly  existence.  Women  frivolous  ; men,  on  the  cox- 
comb order,  — all  but  Harvey  Fay.  He  is  talented  ; owns 
a soul;  is  not  dependent  on  a moustache  or  French  boots 
for  happiness  ; is  refined  in  all  his  tastes,  and  a gentleman 
in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word  ; can  sing  the  soul  out 
of  you,  and  make  time  fiy  faster  than  any  man  you  ever 
saw.  Alas!  that  there  must  always  be  a “ but ! ” Har- 
vey, the  peerless  Harvey,  had  one  sad  foible  — and  it  was 
that  which  had  clouded  Kitty’s  brow  and  saddened  her 
heart.  True,  it  had  not,  as  yet,  become  a fixed  habit,  but 
where  was  the  security  for  the  future  ? 

And  so  Kitty  sat  leaning  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
and  wondering  if  a woman’s  power,  if  her  nice  tact 
and  delicacy,  were  not  bestowed  upon  her  for  something 
better  than  to  further  her  own  selfish  purposes  ? Harvey 
was  sensitive,  proud  and  high-spirited,  — it  must  be  a 
very  gentle  hand  that  would  turn  him  back  from  that 
dizzy  precipice.  Could  she  not  save  him  ? She  resolved 
F* 


9 


130 


K ZTe7  T’S  resolve. 


to  try ; she  would  exert  hei  power  — for  once  — for  som^ 
noble  purpose. 


It  was  a gay  scene  — that  ball-room ' The  fairy  forms 
that  floated  down  the  daoce,  with  flowing  tresses’  and 
sparkling  eyes,  and  snowy  necks,  might  have  bewildered 
the  sober  head  of  age.  Soft,  entrancing  music,  brilliant 
lights,  and  the  overpowering  perfume  of  myriad  sweet 
flowers,  all  lent  their  aid  to  complete  the  spell.  Kitty 
shone,  as  usual,  the  brightest  star  of  the  evening.  One 
jannot  gaze  long  at  a “ star  ” without  being  dazzled ; so 
how  can  I describe  it  ? 1 can  only  say  Kitty  was  irre 

sistible.  One  minute  you ’d  think  it  was  her  eyes  ; then 
the  little  dimpled  hand  that  rested  on  your  arm ; then 
her  golden  ringlets,  or  the  tiny  feet  that  supported  that 
swaying,  graceful  figure.  A.s  to  her  eyes,  whether  black, 
or  blue,  or  hazel,  you  could  not  tell.  You  only  knew  it 
was  very  dangerous  looking  at  them  long  at  a time,  unless 
you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  surrender. 

Well^  Kitty  had  received  her  usual  share  of  homage, 
with  her  usual  sweet  nonchalance,  and  now  accepted  the 
arm  of  a gentleman  to  the  supper-table,  where  wit  flew 
like  champagne  corks,  and  hearts  were  lost  and  won  with 
a celerity  worthy  this  progressive  age.  Harvey  was  ag 
handsome  as  he  well  could  be,  and  be  mortal ; in  nigh 
grood-humor,  and  as  felicitous  as  only  he  knew  how  lo  be 
in  sayinp;  a thousand  brilliant  nothings. 


kitty's  resolve. 


« 


lai 

Kitty  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  and  saw  him,  ere 
long,  retire  to  a side-table,  and,  turning  out  a glass  of 
wine,  hold  it  to  his  lips.  In  an  instant  she  was  by  his 
side. 

“ It  is  mine  ! ” said  she,  playfully,  extending  her  little 
hand  to  grasp  it ; but  there  was  a deep  glow  upon  her 
cheek,  and  an  earnest,  imploring  look  in  her  eye,  that 
said  more  than  her  words,  and  deepened  the  flush  on 
Harvey’s  temples. 

“ As  you  will,  fair  lady,”  said  he,  with  a slight  shade 
of  embarrassment ; but  wherefore  ? ” 

“ 0,  only  a woman’s  whim  ! ” said  Kitty.  “ You  are 
no  true  knight,  if  you  cannot  serve  a lady  without  a 
reason.” 

“ I ’d  serve  you  forever  ! ” said  Harvey,  as  he  looked 
admiringly  upon  her  changing  countenance. 

“ Then  drink  no  wine  to-night,  unless  I fill  the  glass  for 
you,”  said  she,  smiling,  as  she  joined  the  dancers. 

“ Only  a woman’s  whim  ! ” Harvey  did  n’t  believe  it. 
“ How  very  lovely  she  looked  ! What  could  she  mean  ? 
Could  it  be  she  thought  hi  n in  da  nger  ? Had  he  gone 
so  far,  almost  imperceptibly  to  himself?  Could  Kitty 
think  that  of  him  ? Pshaw ! it  could  n’t  be  and  he 
drew  himself  proudly  up.  “It  must  be  some  girlish 
nonsense,  — a wager,  or  a bet  of  some  kind.  But  that 
imploring,  timid  look ! O there  was  vsomething  in  it, 


kitty’s  kesolve. 


132 

after  all ! He  would  n’t  be  so  tortured  ; he  would  know 
before  he  slept  that  night.” 

There ’s  an  end  to  all  things,  and  balls  are  no  excep- 
^ion.  Happy  cavaliers  were  performing  the  agreeable 
luty  of  settling  refractory  shawls  upon  round,  white 
shoulders.  “ Pdgoletts  ” were  to  be  tied  under  pretty 
chins,  and  lace  kerchiefs  around  swan-like  throats. 

These  interminable  matters  being  concluded,  Kitty 
accepted  Harvey  as  her  escort  home.  They  talked  about 
a thousand  little  nothings,  about  which  neither  cared, 
when  Harry  cut  it  all  short,  very  suddenly,  with, 

“ Miss  Gray,  will  you  tell  me  frankly  why  you 
tabooed  ’ that  glass  of  wine  ? ” 

All  Kitty’s  practised  self-possession  forsook  her.  She 
hesitated  a moment ; — she  feared  to  wound  his  feelings. 
No,  she  would  not  falter ! So  she  said,  in  a clear,  low 
voice,  while  her  long  lashes  swept  her  cheek,  “ Because  1 
knew  that  to  you  it  was  a poisoned  draught,  Mr.  Fay  ; 
and  I were  no  true  friend  did  I fail  to  warn  you.  You 
will  not  be  vexed  with  me  ? ” said  she,  with  winning 
sweetness,  as  she  extended  him  her  hand. 

Harvey’s  answer  is  not  recorded ; but  it  is  sufficient  to 
say,  that  the  secret  of  his  high  legal  eminence  is  known 
only  to  the  belle  of . 

Alas ! that  woman,  gifted  with  an  angel’s  powers,  sent 
on  an  angel’s  mission,  should  so  often  be  content  with 
iiic  butterfly  life  of  a pleasure-seeking  fashionist ! 


WOMAN. 


If  a woman  once  errs, 

K-ick  her  down,  kick  her  down  j 
If  misfortune  is  hers. 

Kick  her  down  ; 

Though  her  tears  fall  like  rain, 

And  she  ne’er  smiles  again, 

Kick  her  down. 

If  man  breaks  her  heart. 

Kick  her  down,  kick  her  down  ; 

Redouble  the  smart  — 

Kick  her  down  ; 

And  if  low  her  condition, 

On,  on  to  perdition,  — 

Kick  her  down.” 

At!  pass  her  by  on  the  other  side;  speaK  no  woid 
of  encouragement  to  her ; measure  not  her  fall  by  her 
temperament,  or  her  temptations,  but  by  the  frigidity  of 
your  own  unsolicited,  pharisaical  heart.  Leave  no  door 
of  escape  open ; close  your  homes  and  your  hearts  ; crush 
every  human  feeling  in  her  soul ; teach  her  that  the 
Bible  and  religion  are  a fable ; check  the  repentant  prayer 
on  her  Magdalen  lip  ; thrust  her  back  upon  the  cruel 


tender  mercies  of  those  who  rejoice  at  her  fall ; sena 
her  forth  with  her  branded  beauty,  like  a blight  and  a 
mildew.  “Stand  aside,  for  thou  art  holier;”- — holier 
than  the  Sinless,  whose  feet  were  bathed  with  her  tears, 
“ and  wiped  with  the  hairs  of  her  head.”  Cast  the  “ first 
stone  ” at  her,  0 thou  whited  sepulchre  * though  those 
holy  lips  could  say,  “ Neither  do  I condemn  thee,  — go 
and  sin  no  more  ^ 


THE  PASSIONATE  FATHER. 


“Greater  is  he  who  ruleth  his  spirit,  than  he  who  taheth  a city.” 

“ Come  here,  sir ! ” said  a strong,  athletic  man,  as  Le 
seized  a delicate-looking  lad  by  the  shoulder.  “You ’ve 
been  in  the  water  again,  sir  ! Have  n't  I fc^-bidden 
it?” 

“ Yes,  father,  but  — ” 

“ No  ‘ buts  I ’ — have  n’t  I forbidden  it,  hey  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir.  I was  — ” 

“No  reply,  sir ! ” and  the  blows  fell  like  a hail-storm 
about  the  child’s  head  and  shoulders. 

Not  a tear  started  from  Harry’s  eye,*‘but  his  face  was 
deadly  pale,  and  his  lips  firmly  compressed,  as  he  rose 
and  looked  at  his  father  with  an  unflinching  eye. 

“ Go  to  your  room,  sir,  and  stay  there  till  you  are  sent 
for.  I ’ll  master  that  spirit  of  yours  before  you  are  many 
days  older ! ” 

Ten  minutes  after,  Harry’s  door  opened,  and  his  mother 
glided  gently  in.  She  was  a fragile,  delicate  woman,  with 
mournful  blue  eyes,  and  temples  startingly  transparent. 
Laying  her  hand  softly  upon  Harry’s  head,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  his  forehead. 


136 


THE  PASSIONATE  FATHER, 


The  rock  was  touched,  and  the  waters  gushed  forth. 
“ Dear  mother  ! ” said  the  weeping  boy. 

“ Why  did  n’t  you  tell  your  father  that  you  plunged 
into  the  water  to  save  the  life  of  your  playmate  ? ” 

“ Did  he  give  me  a chance  ? ” said  Harry,  springing  tc 
his  feet,  with  a flashing  eye.  “ Did  n’t  he  twice  bid  me 
be  silent,  when  I tried  to  explain  ? Mother,  he ’s  a tyrant 
to  you  and  to  me  ! ” 

“ Harry,  he ’s  my  husband  and  your  father  ! ” 

“ Yes,  and  I ’m  sorry  for  it.  What  have  I ever  had 
but  blows  and  harsh  words  ? Look  at  your  pale  cheeks 
and  sunken  eyes,  mother  ! It ’s  too  bad,  I say  ! He ’s 
a tyrant,  mother  ! ” said  the  boy,  with  a clenched  fist  and 
set  teeth ; “ and  if  it  were  not  for  you,  I would  have  been 
leagues  ofi*  long  ago.  And  there ’s  Nellie,  too,  poor,  sick 
child  ! What  good  will  all  her  medicine  do  her  ? She 
trembles  like  a leaf  when  she  hears  his  footsteps.  I say, 
’t  is  brutal,  mother  ! ” 

“ Harry  ” — and  a soft  hand  was  laid  on  the  impetuous 
boy’s  lips  — “ for  my  sake  — ” 

“ Well,  ’t  is  only  for  your  sake,  — yours  and  poor  Nel- 
lie’s, — or  I should  be  on  the  sea  somewhere  — anywhere 
but  here.” 

Late  that  night,  Mary  Lee  stole  to  her  boy’s  bedside, 
before  retiring  to  rest.  “ God  be  thanked,  he  sleeps ! 
she  murmured,  as  she  shaded  her  lamp  from  his  face. 
Then,  kneeling  at  his  bedside,  she  prayed  for  patience 


THE  PASSIONATE  FATHER. 


137 


and  wisdom  to  bear  uncomplainingly  the  heavy  cross 
under  which  her  steps  were  faltering  ; and  then  she 
prayed  for  her  husband. 

“No,  no,  not  that!”  said  Harry,  springing  from  his 
pillow,  and  throwing  his  arms  about  her  neck.  “ I car 
forgive  him  what  he  has  done  to  me,  but  I never  will  for- 
give him  what  he  has  made  you  sufier.  Don’t  pray  for 
him,  — at  least,  don’t  let  me  hear  it ! ” 

Mary  Lee  was  too  wise  to  expostulate.  She  knew  her 
boy  was  spirit-sore,  under  the  sense  of  recent  injustice ; 
so  she  lay  down  beside  him,  and,  resting  her  tearful  cheek 
against  his,  repeated,  in  a low,  sweet  voice,  the  story  of 
the  crucifixion.  “Father,  forgive  them,  they  know  not 
what  they  do  ! ” fell  upon  his  troubled  ear.  He  yielded 
to  the  holy  spell. 

“ I will ! ” he  sobbed.  “ Mother,  you  are  an  angel ; 
and  if  I ever  get  to  heaven,  it  will  be  your  hand  that  has 
led  me  there.” 


There  was  hurrying  to  and  fro  in  Robert  Lee’s  house 
that  night.  It  was  a heavy  hand  that  dealt  those  angry 
blows  on  that  young  head  ! 

The  passionate  father’s  repentance  came  too  late, — 
came  with  the  word  that  his  boy  must  die ! 

“ Be  kind  to  her  ! ” said  Harry,  as  his  head  droopeo 
on  his  mother’s  shoulder. 


138 


THE  PASSIONATE  KATHEK. 


It  was  a dearly -bought  lesson  ! Beside  that  lifeless 
corpse,  Robert  Lee  renewed  his  marriage  vow  ; and  now, 
when  the  hot  blood  of  anger  rises  to  his  temples,  and  the 
basty  word  springs  to  his  lip,  the  pale  face  of  the  dead 
rises  up  between  him  and  the  offender,  and  an  angel  voice 
vhispers,  ‘‘  Peace,  be  still ! ” 


THE  PARTIAL  MOTHER. 


Mother,  Is  that  you,  my  darling  I 
Child,  No,  mamma,  *t  is  only  me  ! 

Fancy  that  little,  pale,  neglected,  sensitive  child,  meek- 
ly returning  that  touching  answer  to  the  mother  of  her 
petted,  beautifiil  sister ! Who  would  not  find  a warm 
comer  in  their  heart  for  her  ? Who  would  not  hasten 
to  make  those  sad,  pensive  eyes  beam  happiness  ? Who 
would  not  raise  her  estimate  of  her  own  powers,  chilled 
and  crushed  in  the  germ,  by  the  hand  that  should  wipe 
away  every  childish  tear  ? Ah ! “ the  coat  of  many 
colors  ” is  not  yet  worn  out.  The  sullen  brow  of  defi- 
ance, or  the  early  grave,  is  too  often  the  sad  pen- 
alty. Other  J osephs  and  Ishmaels  may  yet  “ thirst  in 
the  desert;”  other  Jacobs  and  Elis  have  their  “gray 
hairs  brought  with  sorrow  to  the  grave.”  How  seldom 
is  equal  justice  done  to  the  children  of  a large  family  ’ 
The  superficial,  the  brilliant,  the  showy,  the  witty,  throw 
a dazzling  glare  over  parental  eyes.  They  mark  not  the 
less  gifted,  but  often  warmer-hearted,  child,  as  she  creeps 
with  swelling  heart  and  filling  eyes  to  some  unnoticed 
corner,  to  sob,  with  passionate  tears,  “ Ah,  it ’s  only  me ! ” 


140 


THE  PART1A1>  MOTHER. 


Frown  not,  impatience,  at  the  little,  shrinking  creature 
at  your  side,  — slow  of  speech  and  stammering  of  tongue, 
turning  his  eye  timidly  even  from  a mother’s  glance,  — 
because  the  quick  flush  of  embarrassment  mounts  to  his 
forehead,  and  he  stands  not  up  with  a bold,  flashing  eye, 
to  answer  the  pleased  guest ! Chide  him  not ! Let  him 
hide  his  tearful  eye  and  blushing  cheek  in  the  folds  of 
your  dress,  if  he  will ; put  a loving  arm  about  him,  and 
let  him  creep  to  your  heart,  and  nestle  there,  till  the 
little  dove  gains  courage  to  flutter  and  soar  with  a strong 
wing.  He  shall  yet,  eagle-like,  face  the  sun ! You 
shall  yet  scarce  keep  in  sight  his  soaring  pinions  ! Bear 
with  him  yet  a while,  ambitious  mother  ’ 


THE  BALL-ROOM  AND  THE 
NURSERY. 


‘‘You  are  quite  beautiful  to-aight,’^  said  Frank  Fear- 
ing to  his  young  wife,  as  she  entered  the  drawing-room 
dressed  for  a ball ; “I  shall  fall  in  love  with  you  over 
again.  What ! not  a smile  for  your  lover-husband  ? and 
a tear  in  your  eye,  too ! What  does  this  mean,  dear- 
est ? ” 

Mary  leaned  her  beautiful  head  upon  her  husband’s 
shoulder,  and  turned  pale  as  she  said : 

“ Frank,  I feel  a strange,  sad  presentiment  of  some 
impending  evil ; from  whence,  I cannot  tell.  I have 
striven  to  banish  it,  but  it  will  not  go  away.  I had  not 
meant  to  speak  of  it  to  you,  lest  you  should  think  me 
weak  or  superstitious;  and,  Frank,”  said  his  sweet  wife, 
in  pleading  tones,  “ this  is  a frivolous  life  we  lead.  We 
are  all  the  world  to  each  other,  — why  frequent  such 
scenes  as  these  ? A fearful  shadow  lies  across  my  path. 
Stay  at  home  with  me,  dearest;  I dare  not  go  to-night.” 

Frank  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  a moment,  then, 
gayly  kissing  her,  he  said, 

“ This  vile  east  wind  has  given  you  the  blues ; the  more 


142  THE  BALL-ROOM  ANL  THE  NURSERf. 

reason  you  should  not  give  yourself  time  to  think  of 
them ; beside,  do  you  think  me  such  a Blue  Beard  as  to 
turn  the  key  on  so  bright  a jewel  as  yourself?  No,  no 
Mary,  I would  have  others  see  it  sparkle  and  shine,  and 
envy  me  its  possession ; so  throw  on  your  cloak,  little  wife, 
and  let  us  away.” 

“ Stop  a moment,  then,”  said  Mary,  with  a smile  and  a 
sigh,  “ let  me  kiss  little  Walter  before  I go ; he  lies  in  his 
little  bed  so  rosy  and  so  bright.  Gome  with  me,  Frank, 
and  look  at  him.” 

With  kisfiies  on  lip,  brow  and  cheek,  the  child  slum 
bered  on,  and  the  carriage  rolled  away  from  the  door  tc 
the  ball. 

It  was  a brilliant  scene  ; that  ball-room!  — Necks  ana 
arms,  that  shamed  for  whiteness  the  snowy  robes  thai 
floated  around  them  ; eyes  rivalling  the  diamond’s  light 
tresses  whose  hue  was  borrowed  from  the  sun  ; man 
hood’s  peerless  form  and  noble  brow ; odorous  garlands, 
flashing  lights,  music  to  make  the  young  blood  race  more 
swiftly  through  the  veins ; all  — all  — were  there,  to 
intoxicate  and  bewilder. 

Peerless  in  the  midst  — queen  of  hearts  and  of  tne 
dance — stood  the  young  wife  of  Frank  Fearing.  Accept- 
ing the  offered  hand  of  an  acquaintance,  she  took  her 
place  among  the  waltzers.  She  made  a few  turns  upon 
the  floor,  then,  pale  as  death,  she  turned  to  her  husbanc^ 
Btying, 


THE  BALL-ROOM  AND  THE  NURSERY.  143 


“ 0,  Frank,  I cannot,  — I feel  such  an  oppression  here, 
nere and  she  placed  her  hand  on  heart  and  brow. 

Frank  looked  annoyed ; he  was  very  proud  of  his  wife ; 
her  beauty  was  the  admiration  of  the  room.  She  had 
never  looked  lovelier  than  to-night.  Whispering  in  het 
ear,  “ For  my  sake,  Mary,  conquer  this  weakness,”  he  led 
her  again  to  the  dancers.  With  a smile  of  gratified  pride 
he  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  as  her  fairy  form  floated 
past  him,  exoitement  and  exercise  lending  again  to  hei 
cheek  its  loveliest  glow,  while  on  all  sides  murmurs  of 
“ Beautiful,  — most  beautiful ! ” fell  on  his  ear.  “ And 
that  bright  vision  is  mine,”  said  Frank  to  himself ; “ I 
have  won  her  from  hearts  that  were  breaking  for  her.” 

When  the  dance  was  over,  following  her  to  the  window, 
he  arranged  her  scarf  about  her  neck,  with  a fond  care ; 
and  with  a “ Thank  you,  dearest,”  was  leaving  her,  when 
she  again  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  saying,  with  a wild 
brilliancy  in  her  eye,  “ Frank ! something  has  happened 
to  Walter  ! take  me  home  now.” 

“ Pshaw ! Mary,  dear ; you  looked  so  radiant,  I thought 
you  had  danced  the  vapors  away.  One  more,  dearest, 
and  then,  if  you  say  so,  we  will  go.” 

Suffering  herself  to  be  persuaded,  again  those  tiny  feef 
were  seen  spurning  the  floor  ; towards  the  close,  her  face 
grew  so  deadly  pale,  that  her  husband,  in  alarm,  flew  to 
her  side. 

‘‘The  effort  costs  you  too  much,  Mary,”  said  Frank 


144  THE  BALL-KOOM  AND  THE  NURSEa> 

“ let  US  go  home.”  He  wrapped  her  cloak  carefullji 
about  her.  She  was  still,  and  cold  as  a marble  statue. 

As  the  carriage  stopped  at  their  door,  she  rushed  past 
him  with  the  swiftness  of  an  antelope,  and,  gaining  her 
boy’s  chamber,  Frank  heard  her  exclaim,  as  she  fell 
senseless  to  the  floor,  “ I knew  it,  1 told  you  so  ! ” The 
child  was  dead. 

The  servant  in  whose  care  it  had  been  left,  — following 
the  example  of  her  mistress,  — had  joined  some  friends 
in  a dance  in  the  hall.  That  terrible  scourge  of  children, 
the  croup,  had  attacked  him,  and  alone,  in  the  still  dark- 
ness, the  fair  boy  wrestled  with  the  “ King  of  Terrors.” 

From  whence  came  the  sad  presentiment  that  clouded 
the  fair  brow  of  the  mother  ; or  the  mysterious  magnet- 
ism drawing  her  so  irresistibly  back  to  her  dying  child  ? 
Who  shall  tell  ? 

For  months  she  lay  vibrating  between  life  and  death  . 

“ Yet  the  Healer  was  there,  who  had  smitten  her  heart. 

And  taken  her  treasure  away  ; 

To  allure  her  to  Heaven,  he  has  placed  it  on  high, 

And  the  mourner  will  sweetly  obey.” 

“ There  had  whispered  a voice,  — ’t  was  (he  voice  of  her  God,  - 
‘ I love  thee  ! I love  thee  ! pass  under  the  rod  ! * ” 

Other  fair  children  now  call  her  “ mother ; ” but  never 
again,  with  flying  feet,  has  she  chased  the  midnight  hours 
away.  Nightly,  as  they  return,  they  find  her  within  the 


THE  BALL-ROOM  AND  THE  NURSERY.  14S 


quiet  circle  of  home,  — within  call  of  helpless  childhood. 
Dearer  than  the  admiration  of  the  gay  throng,  — sweetei 
to  her  than  viol  or  harp,  — is  the  music  of  their  young 
voices,  and  tenderly  she  leads  their  little  feet  into 
the  green  pastures  and  unto  the  still  waters  of  salva- 
tion blest  with  the  smOe  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  who 
saith,  “ Suffer  the  little  i»hildrea  to  come  unto  me,  and 
forbid  them  not.’’ 

to  G 


ALL’S  WELL. 


" Twelve  o’clock  at  nightj  and  all  U #ell ! ” 

False  prophet ! Still  and  statue-like,  at  yonder  Wift 
dow,  stands  the  wife.  The  clock  has  told  the  small 
hours ; yet  her  face  is  pressed  closely  against  the  window- 
pane,  striving  in  vain,  with  straining  eye,  to  pierce  the 
darloiess.  She  sees  nothing ; she  hears  nothing,  but 
the  beating  of  her  own  heart.  Now  she  takes  her  seat ; 
opens  a small  Bible,  and  seeks  from  it  what  comfort  she 
may,  while  tears  blister  the  pages.  Then  she  clasps  her 
hands,  and  her  lips  are  tremulous  with  mute  supplication, 
liist ! There  is  an  unsteady  step  in  the  hall ; she  knows 
it!  Many  a time  and  oft  it  has  trod  an  rery  heart- 
strings. She  glides  down  gently  to  meet  ili©  uanderer 
He  hdls  heavily  against  her  ; in  maudlin  tones,  pro- 
nounces a name  he  had  long  siv.cc  forgotten  “to  honor. 
0,  all-enduring  power  of  woman’s  love!  No  reproach, 
no  upbraiding  — the  slight  arm  passed  around  that  reel- 
ing figure,  once  erect  in  “God’s  own  image.”  With 
tender  words  of  entreaty,  which  he  is  powerless  to  resist, 
if  he  would,  she  leads  him  in.  It  is  but  a repetition  of  a 
thousand  such  vigils ! It  is  the  performance  of  a vow 


-vLL’S  WELL. 


147 


with  a heroism  and  patient  endurance  too  common  and 
every-day  to  be  chronicled  on  earth ; too  holy  and 
heavenly  to  pa  unnoticed  by  the  “ registering  angel  ” 
above 

“All’s  weU!” 

False  prop!  let  In  yonder  luxurious  room  sits  one 
whose  curse  it  wa  to  be  fair  as  a dream  of  Eden.  Time 
was  »vhen  tl  ose  cl  3ar  eyes  looked  lovingly  into  a moth- 
er’s face  — when  a gray-haired  father  laid  his  trembling 
hand,  with  a blessing,  on  that  sunny  head  — when  broth- 
ers’ and  sisters’  voices  blended  with  her  own,  in  heart- 
music,  around  that  happy  hearth.  0 ! where  are  they 
now  ? Are  there  none  to  say  to  the  repenting  Magdalen, 
“Neither  do  I condemn  thee, — go,  and  sin  no  more?” 
Must  the  gilded  fetter  continue  to  bind  the  soul  that 
loathes  it,  because  man  is  less  merciful  than  God  ? 

“ All ’s  well ! ” 

False  prophet ! There  lies  the  dead  orphan.  In  all 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  green  earth  there  was 
found  no  sheltering  nest  where  that  lonely  dove  could 
^'old  its  wings,  when  the  parent  birds  had  flown.  The 
brooding  wing  was  gone,  that  covered  it  from  the  cold 
winds  of  neglect  and  unkindness.  Love  vas  its  liff 
and  so  it  drooped ! 


148 


ALLS  WELL. 


“All’s  well  !” 

False  prophet  I Sin  walks  the  earth  in  purple  and 
fine  linen ; honest  poverty,  with  tear-bedewed  face,  hun- 
gers and  shivers  and  thirsts,  “ while  the  publican  stands 
afar  ofF ! ” The  widow  pleads  in  vain  to  the  ermined 
judge  for  “justice;”  and,  unpunished  of  Heaven,  the 
human  tiger  crouches  in  his  lair,  and  springs  upon  his 
helpless  prey ! 

“ All ’s  well ! ” 

Ah,  yes,  all  is  well ! — for  “He  who  seeth  the  end 
from  the  beginning  ” holds  evenly  the  scales  of  justice. 
“ Dives  ” shall  yet  beg  of  “ Lazarus.”  Every  human 
tear  is  counted.  They  shall  yet  sparkle  as  gems  in  the 
crown  of  the  patient  and  enduring  disciple ! When  the 
clear,  broad  light  of  eternity  shines  upon  life’s  crooked 
paths,  we  shall  see  the  snares  and  pitfalls  from  which  our 
hedge  of  thorns  has  fenced  us  in ; and,  in  the  maturity 
of  our  full-grown  faith,  we  shall  exultingly  say, — 
“ Father  ! not  as  I will,  but  as  Thou  wilt!  ” 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVES. 


Walter,’’  said  Mrs.  Clay,  “ you  have  not  tasted  your 
coffee  this  morning  ; are  you  ill  ? ” and  she  leaned  across 
ihe  table,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

“No  — yes,  not  quite  well.  I had  a great  deal  to 
occupy  me  yesterday  and  he  arose  from  his  seat  to 
avoid  the  scrutiny  of  those  clear  eyes,  adding,  “If  I 
should  n’t  be  home  at  the  dinner-hour,  Marion,  don’t  wait 
for  me  ; — I may  be  detained  by  business.  And  now  kiss 
me  before  I go.” 

“ If  Walter  would  only  leave  that  odious  bank  ! ” said 
Marion  to  herself.  “ Such  a tread-mill  life  for  him  to 
lead,  — they  are  killing  him  with  such  close  applica- 
tion ; ” and  she  moved  about,  busying  her  little  head 
devising  certain  pathetic  appeals  to  the  “ Board  of 
Directors  ” for  a mitigation  of  his  sufferings. 

When  one  is  away  from  a dear  friend,  ’t  is  a satisfac- 
tion to  be  employed  in  performing  some  little  service  foi 
them,  how  trifling  soever  it  may  be.  So  Marion  passed 
into  the  library  ; — arranging  Walter’s  books  and  papers, 
producing  order  out  of  confusion  from  a discouraging 
and  heterogeneous  heap  of  pamphlets  and  letters;  moved 


150 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVE  3 


his  easy-chair  round  to  the  most  inviting  locnlit^  jitid 
then  her  eyes  fell  upon  a little  sketch  he  had  drawn. 
“ Poor  Walter ! ” said  she ; “ with  his  artist  eye  and 
poet  heart,  to  be  counting  up  those  interminable  rows  of 
figures,  day  after  day,  that  any  man  who  had  brains 
enough  for  the  rule  of  three  could  do  just  as  well.  To 
think  he  must  always  lead  such  a tread-mill  life!  — never 
feast  his  eyes  on  all  that  is  beautiful  and  glorious  beyond 
the  seas,  while  so  many  stupid  people  are  galloping  over 
the  continent,  getting  up  fits  of  sham  enthusiasm,  just  as 
the  ‘ Guide  Books’  direct!  It  is  too  bad.”  She  wished 
heartily  she  had  brought  him  other  dowry  than  her  pretty 
face  and  warm  heart. 

Well,  dinner-hour  came,  but  came  not  Walter.  Marion 
was  not  anxious,  because  he  had  prepared  her  for  his 
absence  ; but  she  missed  his  handsome  face  at  the  table, 
and  pushed  away  her  food  untasted.  She  was  unfashion- 
able enough  to  love  him  quite  as  well  — although  she  had 
been  married  many  happy  years  — as  on  the  day  when 
the  priest’s  blessing  fell  on  her  maiden  ear. 

“Come  here,  Nettie,”  said  she  to  a noble  boy.  “Spring 
into  my  lap,  and  let  me  look  at  papa’s  eyes  ;”  — and  she 
pushed  back  the  clustering  curls  from  his  broad,  white 
forehead,  “Tell  me,  Nettie,  which  do  you  love  best, 
papa  or  me  ? ” 

“ Papa  said  I must  love  you  best,  because  he  does»” 
said  the  child. 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVES  IM 

Bless  your  baby  lips  for  that  sweet  answer ! Where 
can  that  dear  papa  be,  I wonder  ? 

The  words  had  but  just  escaped  her  lips  when  hei 
father  entered.  Not  with  his  usual  beaming  smile  and 
extended  hand,  but  with  a slow,  uncertain  step,  as  if  he 
could  with  difficulty  sustain  himself  And  such  a hag- 
gard look  ! 

“ Send  away  the  child,”  said  he,  huskily  ; “ I want  tc 
speak  with  you,  Marion.” 

“ He  is  not  dead  ? — don’t  tell  me  that ! ” said  sue, 
with  ashen  lips  — her  thoughts  at  once  reverting  to  her 
husband. 

“ Better  so,  better  so,”  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his 
gray  head,  “ than  to  live  to  disgrace  us  all  as  he  has ! ” 

“Who  dare  couple  ‘disgrace’  with  Walter’s  name?” 
said  Marion,  with  a flashing  eye.  “ Not  you,  0,  not  you, 
dear  father  ! ” and  she  looked  imploringly  in  his  face. 

“ He  has  disgraced  us  all,  I say  ! ” said  the  proud  old 
man  ; — “ you  and  I,  and  that  innocent  child.  He  has 
embezzled  money  to  a large  amount,  and  is  now  in  cus- 
tody ; and  I ’ve  come  to  take  you  home  with  me,  — you 
and  Nettie,  — for  you  must  forget  him,  Marion.” 

“ Never,  never,  never  ! ” said  she,  solemnly.  “ ’T  is 
false  ! — my  noble,  generous,  high-minded  husband  I — 
never  ! There  is  a conspiracy,  — it  will  all  be  cleared 
up.  (),  father,  unsay  those  dreadful  words!  I wib 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVES. 


102 

never  leave  him,  though  all  the  world  forsake  him.  Lt^ 
me  go  to  him,  father  ! ” 

“ Marion,”  said  the  old  man,  “ he  will  be  sentenced 
to  a felon’s  cell ; — there  is  no  escape  for  him.  When 
that  takes  place,  the  law  frees  you.  Would  you  disgrace 
your  boy  ? Come  back  to  your  childhood’s  home,  and 
forget  him,  — ’t  is  your  duty.  He  is  unworthy  your  love 
or  mine.  If  not,”  said  the  old  man,  marking  her  com- 
pressed lip  and  heightened  color,  “ if  not  — ” 

“ What  then  ? ” said  Marion,  calmly. 

“ You  are  no  child  of  mine  ! ” said  the  irritated  old 
man. 

“ God  help)  me,  then  ! ” said  Marion ; “ for  I will  never 
leave  nor  forsake  him.” 


It  was  a sight  to  move  the  stoutest  heart,  that  fair, 
delicate  woman  in  the  prison  cell.  Walter  started  to  his 
feet,  but  he  did  not  advance  to  meet  her.  There  was 
little  need.  Her  arms  were  about  his  neck,  her  heaa 
upon  his  breast.  Once,  twice  he  essayed  to  speak,  but 
her  hand  was  laid  upon  his  lips  ; — she  would  not  hear 
even  from  his  own  mouth,  that  he  had  fallen.  The  old 
jailer,  stony-hearted  as  he  was,  drew  his  coat-sleeve  across 
his  eyes,  as  he  closed  the  door  upon  them. 

“ Some  fiend  from  hell  tempted  me  ! ” said  the  wretches? 
man,  at  last ; “ but  the  law  frees  you  from  me,  .Marion, 
^aid  he,  bitterly. 


HO\f  WOMAN  LOVE? 


“ rours  till  death  ! ” whispered  the  weeping  wife. 

God  bless  jour  noble  heart,  Marion ! Now  1 can 
bear  mj  punishment.” 

If  ‘‘  death  loves  a shining  mark,”  so  does  malice. 
Every  petty  underling,  who  owed  Walter  Clay  a grudge, 
took  this  opportunity  to  pay  the  debt.  The  past  was 
ransacked  for  all  the  little  minutiae  of  his  history  ; dark 
hints  and  innuendoes  were  thrown  cut,  to  prejudice  still 
more  the  public  mind.  There  were  cowardly  stabs  in  the 
dark,  from  pusillanimous  villains,  who  would  have  been 
livid  with  fear  had  their  victim  been  free  to  face  them. 
Reporters  nibbed  their  pens  with  an  appetite ; and  the 
“ extras  ” teemed  with  exaggerated  accounts  of  the  pris- 
oner and  the  trial.  Even  the  sacredness  of  the  wife’s 
sorrow  was  intruded  upon  by  those  ravenous,  must-have- 
a-paragraph  gentry.  Then  there  were  the  usual  number 
of  sagacious  people,  who  shook  their  empty  heads,  and 
“ always  expected  he  would  turn  out  so,  because  those 
who  held  their  heads  so  high  generally  did.”  First  and 
foremost  were  these  “ Good  Samaritans  ” at  the  trial ; 
noting  every  flitting  expression  of  the  agonized  prisoner’s 
face,  and  only  wishing  it  were  in  their  power  to  prolong 
his  acute  suflFering  and  their  exquisite  enjoyment  months 
instead  of  hours.  “ Good  enough  for  him ! ” was  their 
final  doxology,  when  the  verdict  of  “ Guilty  ” was  ren- 
dered. “It  will  take  his  pride  down  a peg.”  0,  most 
Pharisaical  censors  ! who  shall  say,  that,  with  equa^ 

a* 


154 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVES 


opportunity  and  temptation,  your  vaunted  virtue  wocdd 
have  better  stood  the  test  ? 

“ The  worst  is  over  now,”  said  Walter,  as  Marion 
bathed  his  temples.  “ I will  struggle  to  bear  the  rest, 
since  you  do  not  desert  me,  Marion ; but  Nettie,  poor 
innocent  Nettie ! ” and  Ihe  strong  man  bowed  his  head, 
and  wept  at  the  heritage  of  shame  for  that  brave  boy. 

And  so  days,  and  weeks,  and  months,  dragged  their 
slow  length  along  to  the  divided  pair.  He,  in  the  livery 
of  ignominy,  bearing  his  sentence  as  best  he  might  among 
the  desperate  and  degraded  ; experiencing  every  moment 
a refinement  of  torture  of  which  their  dull  intellects  and 
deadened  sensibilities  knew  nothing.  She,  pointed  out  a? 
the  “ felon’s  wife  ” by  the  rude  crowd;  shrinking  nervously 
from  notice ; trembling  at  the  apprehension  of  insult,  as 
she  toiled  on  heroically,  day  by  day,  for  daily  bread. 

Whence  came  that  quiet  dignity  with  which  Walter 
Clay  exacted  respect  even  from  his  jailers  ? Ah  ! there 
was  a true  heart  throbbing  for  him  outside  those  prison' 
walls.  Nightly  was  he  remembered  in  her  prayers. 
Daily  she  taught  their  boy  to  lisp,  even  now,  his  father’s 
name.  Like  music  to  his  ear  was  that  light  footstep  ech- 
oing through  the  gloomy  corridor  to  his  cell.  Tenderly 
those  loving  arms  twined  about  his  neck;  sacred  and  true 
were  the  holy  words  with  which  she  cheered  his  sinking 
spirit.  Hopefully  she  painted  the  future  — this  trial 
past — when,  in  some  home  beyond  the  seas,  he  should 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVES. 


155 


yet  be  the  happier  for  being  so  chastened  by  sorrow,  and 
where  no  malicious  tongue  should  remind  him  of  his 
temptation  or  his  fall.  Sweetly  upon  his  ear  fell  those 
soothing  words  — first  uttered  by  sacred  lips  — “ Go  and 
sin  no  more.” 

No,  Walter  Clay  was  not  deserted  quite ! He  was 
not  degraded,  even  there  and  thus,  while  he  could  hold 
up  his  head  and  boast  of  a love  so  devoted,  so  pure,  so 
holy  ! 

The  hour  of  emancipation  came  at  last,  and  Walter 
Clay  stepped  forth  under  the  broad,  blue  sky,  once  more 
a free  man ; and  in  the  little  room  where  the  heroic  wife 
had  suffered  and  toiled,  she  once  more  clasped  her  hus 
band  to  her  breast. 

“ And  Nettie,  where  is  he  ? Let  me  kiss  my  boy,”  said 
the  joyful  father.  “ Where ’s  Nettie  ? ” 

“ On  the  Saviour’s  bosom  ! ” said  Marion,  with  a chok- 
ing voice. 

“ Dead  ? And  you  have  buried  this  sad  secret  in  your 
breast,  and  borne  this  great  grief  unshared,  lest  you 
should  add  to  my  sorrow ! ” and  he  knelt  at  her  feet 
reverently. 

“ God  knows  you  had  enough  to  bear  ! ” said  Marion, 
as  they  mingled  their  tears  together,  and  gazed  at  the 
long,  bright,  golden  tress,  all  that  remained  to  them  of 
little  Nettie. 


156 


HOW  WOMAN  LOVtes, 


“What  8n  interesting  couple!”  said  a travelling  artist 
in  Italy  to  his  companion.  “ That  woman’s  lace  reminds 
one  of  a Madonna,  — so  pensive,  sweet  and  touching.  If 
she  would  but  sit  to  me.  Who  are  they,  Pietro  ? ” 
“They  came  here  about  a year  since,  — live  in  the 
greatest  seclusion,  and  seem  anxiously  to  avoid  all  con 
tact  with  their  own  countrymen.  All  the  poor  peasantry 
bless  them ; and  Father  Giovanni  says  they  are  the  besi* 
people,  for  heretics,  he  ever  saw.” 


A MOTHER’S  SOLILOQUY. 


T TS  mine  ! Bound  to  me  by  a tie  that  death  itself 
cannot  sever.  That  little  heart  shall  never  thrill  with 
pleasure,  or  throb  with  pain,  without  a quick  response 
from  mine.  I am  the  centre  of  its  little  world  ; its  verj 
life  depends  on  my  faithful  care.  It  is  my  sweet  duty  tc 
deck  those  dimpled  limbs,  — to  poise  that  tiny,  trembling 
foot.  Yet  stay,  — my  duty  ends  not  here  ! A soul  looks 
forth  from  those  blue  eyes,  — an  undying  spirit,  that  shall 
plume  its  wing  for  a ceaiKjl^  flight,  guided  by  my  erring 
hand. 

The  hot  blood  of  anger  miy  ji«)t  poison  the  fount 
whence  it  draws  its  life,  or  the  hasty  word  escape  my 
lip,  in  that  pure  presence.  Wayward,  passionate,  impuls- 
ive, — how  shall  I approach  it,  but  with  a hush  upon  my 
spirit,  and  a silent  prayer  ! 

0,  careless  sentinel ! slumber  not  at  thy  post  over  its 
trusting  innocence ! 

O,  reckless  “ sower  of  the  seed  ! ” let  not  “ the  tares 
spring  up ! 

0.  unskilful  helmsman  ! how  shalt  thou  pilot  tha^ 


158 


A mother’s  soliloquy. 


little  bark,  o’er  life’s  tempestuous  sea,  safely  to  tue 
eternal  shore  ? 

“ ’T  is  ours  ! ” 

A father  bends  proudly  over  that  little  cradle ! A 
father’s  love,  how  strong,  how  true  ! But  0,  not  so 
warm,  not  so  tender,  as  hers  whose  heart  that  babe  hath 
lain  beneath ! 

Fit  me  for  the  holy  trust,  O good  Shepherd,  or  fold  it 
early  to  thy  loving  bosom  ’ 


THE  INVALID  WIFE. 


• KTery  wife  needs  a good  stock  of  love  to  start  with.*’ 

Don’t  she  ? — You  are  upon  a sick  bed ; a little,  feeble 
thing  lies  upon  your  arm,  that  you  might  crush  with  one 
hand.  You  take  those  little  velvet  fingers  in  yours, 
close  your  eyes,  and  turn  your  head  languidly  to  the 
pillo;y.  Little  brothers  and  sisters,  — Carry,  and  Harry, 
and  Faiiny,  and  Frank,  and  Willy,  and  Mary,  and 
Kitty,  — half  a score,  — come  tiptoeing  into  the  room, 
“to  see  the  new  baby.”  It  is  quite  an  old  story  to 
‘ nurse,”  who  sits  there  like  an  automaton,  while  they 
give  vent  to  their  enthusiastic  admiration  of  its  wee  toes 
and  fingers,  and  make  profound  inquiries,  which  nobody 
thinks  best  to  hear.  You  look  on  with  a languid  smile, 
and  they  pass  out,  asking,  “ Why  they  can’t  stay  with 
dear  mamma,  and  why  they  must  n’t  play  puss  in  the 
corner,”  as  usual  ? You  wonder  if  your  little  croupy 
boy  tied  his  tippet  on  when  he  went  to  school,  and 
whether  Betty  will  see  that  your  husband’s  flannel  is 
aired,  and  if  Peggy  has  cleaned  the  silver,  and  washed 
ofl  the  front-door  steps,  and  what  you:  blessed  husband 


160 


THE  INVALID  WIFE. 


is  about,  that  he  don’t  come  home  to  dinner.  There  sits 
old  nurse,  keeping  up  that  dreadful  tread-mill  trotting, 
‘to  quiet  the  baby,”  till  you  could  fly  through  the  key- 
hole in  desperation.  The  odor  of  dinner  begins  to  creep 
up  stairs.  You  wonder  if  your  husband’s  pudding  will 
be  made  right,  and  if  Betty  will  remember  to  put  wine 
in  the  sauce,  as  he  likes  it ; and  then  the  perspiration 
starts  out  on  your  forehead,  as  you  hear  a thumping  on 
the  stairs,  and  a child’s  suppressed  scream ; and  nurse 
swathes  the  baby  up  in  flannel  to  the  tip  of  its  nose, 
dumps  it  down  in  the  easy-chair,  and  tells  you  to  “ leave 
the  family  to  her,  and  go  to  sleep.”  By  and  by  she  comes 
in,  — after  staying  down  long  enough  to  get  a refreshing 
cup  of  coffee,  — and  walks  up  to  the  bed  with  a bowl 
if  gruel,  tasting  it,  and  then  putting  the  spoon  back  into 
the  bowl.  In  the  first  place,  you  hate  gruel ; in  the 
next,  you  could  n’t  eat  it,  if  she  held  a pistol  to  your 
head,  after  that  spoon  has  been  in  her  mouth ; so  you 
meekly  suggest  that  it  be  set  on  the  table  to  cool  — 
hoping,  by  some  providential  interposition,  it  may  get 
tipped  over.  Well,  she  moves  round  your  room  with  a 
pair  of  creaking  shoes,  and  a bran-new  gingham  gown, 
that  rattles  like  a paper  window-curtain,  at  every  step  • 
and  smooths  her  hair  with  your  nice  little  head-brush, 
and  opens  a drawer  by  mistake  (?),  “ thinking  it  was  the 
oaby’s  drawer.”  Then  you  hear  little  nails  scratching 
5n  the  door ; and  Charley  whispers  throujjh  the  kev 


THE  INVALID  WIDE. 


161 


hole,  “ Mamma,  Charley ’s  tired ; please  let  Charley 
come  in/’  Nurse  scowls,  and  says  no , but  you  inter- 
cede— poor  Charley,  he’s  only  a baby  himself.  Well, 
he  leans  his  little  head  wearily  against  the  pillow,  ana 
looks  suspiciously  at  that  little,  moving  bundle  of  flannel 
in  nurse’s  lap.  It ’s  clear  he ’s  had  a hard  time  of  it, 
what  with  tears  and  molasses  ! The  little  shining  curls, 
that  you  have  so  often  rolled  over  your  fingers,  are  a 
tangled  mass ; and  you  long  to  take  him,  and  make  him 
comfortable,  and  cosset  him  a little ; and,  then,  the  baby 
cries  again,  and  you  turn  your  head  to  the  pillow  with 
a smothered  sigh.  Nurse  hears  it,  and  Charley  is  taken 
struggling  from  the  room.  You  take  your  watch  from  un- 
der the  pillow,  to  see  if  husband  won’t  be  home  soon,  and 
then  look  at  nurse,  who  takes  a pinch  of  snuft'  over  your 
bowl  of  gruel,  and  sits  down  nodding  drowsily,  with  the 
baby  in  alarming  proximity  to  the  fire.  Now  you  hear 
a dear  step  on  the  stairs.  It ’s  your  Charley ! How 
bright  he  looks ! and  what  nice  fresh  air  he  brings  with 
him  from  out  doors ! He  parts  the  bed-curtains,  looks 
and  pats  you  on  the  cheek.  You  just  want  to  lay 
your  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  have  such  a splendid  cry ! 
but  there  sits  that  old  Gorgon  of  a nurse,  — she  don’t 
believe  in  husbands,  she  don’t ! You  make  Charley  a 
free-mason  sign  to  send  her  down  stairs  for  something. 
He  says,  — right  out  loud,  — men  are  so  stupid ! — 
What  did  you  say,  dear?”  Of  course,  you  protest 

il 


THE  INVALII>  Wlii’E. 

you  did  n’t  say  a word,  — never  thought  of  such  a thing 

— and  cuddle  your  head  down  to  your  ruffled  pillows,  and 
cry  because  you  don’t  know  what  else  to  do,  and  because 
you  are  weak  and  weary,  and  full  of  care  for  your 
family,  and  don’t  want  to  see  anybody  but  “ Charley.” 
Nurse  says  “ she  shall  have  you  sick,”  and  tells  your 
husband  “ he ’d  better  go  down,  and  let  you  go  to  sleep.” 
Off  he  goes,  wondering  what  on  earth  ails  you,  to  cry  ! — 
wishes  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  lie  still,  and  be  waited 
upon  ! After  dinner  he  comes  in  to  bid  you  good-by 
before  he  goes  to  his  office,  — whistles  “ Nelly  Bly  ” loud 
enough  to  wake  up  the  baby,  whom  he  calls  “ a comi- 
cal little  concern,”  — and  puts  his  dear,  thoughtless  head 
down  to  your  pillow,  at  a signal  from  you,  to  hear 
what  you  have  to  say.  Well,  there  ’s  no  help  for  it,  you 
cry  again,  and  only  say  “ Dear  Charley ; ” and  he  laughs, 
and  settles  l|is  dickey,  and  says  you  are  “ a nervous  little 
puss,”  gives  you  a kiss,  lights  his  cigar  at  the  fire,  half 
strangles  the  new  baby  with  the  first  whiff,  and  tpkes 
your  heart  off  with  him  down  street ! 

And  you  lie  there  and  eat  that  gruel ! and  pick  the 
fuzz  all  off  the  blanket,  and  make  facei?  at  the  nurse 
under  the  sheet,  and  wish  Eve  had  never  ale  that  apple 

— Genesis  3 : 16,  — or  that  you  were  “ Abel  ” to  “ Cain  ’ 
her  for  doing  it  ! 


THE  STRAY  LAMB. 


I WAS  walking  through  the  streets  yesterday,  chiliea 
outwardly  and  inw^ardly,  as  one  is  apt  to  be,  by  the 
first  approach  of  winter,  — somewhat  out  of  humor  with 
myself,  and  indisposed  to  be  pleased  with  others, — 
when  I noticed  before  me,  on  foot,  a party  of  emigrants 
in  a very  destitute  condition.  One  of  the  women  -was 
tottering  under  the  weight  of  a huge  chest  she  carried 
upon  her  head;  most  of  them  were  ragged,  and  all 
travel-stained  and  careworn.  Bringing  up  the  rear, 
with  uncertain,  faltering  steps,  somewhat  behind  the 
rest  of  the  party,  was  a little  girl  of  eight  years,  bon- 
netless,  bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  her  scanty  frock 
barely  reaching  to  her  little,  purpled  knees ; her  tangled 
brown  hair  the  sport  of  the  winds.  She  stepped  wearily, 
as  if  she  had  neither  aim  nor  object  in  moving  on  ; 
showing  neither  wonder  nor  childish  curiosity  at  the 
new  sights  and  scenes  before  her.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  the  rest  of  the  party  whether 
she  kept  pace  with  them  or  not.  My  heart  ached  foi 
her,  she  looked  so  friendless,  so  prematurely  careworn 


164 


THE  8TBAT  L A M H . 


What  should  be  her  future  fate  in  this  great  city  of 
snares  and  temptations  ? Who  should  take  her  by  the 
hand  ? Ah,  look ! the  Good  Shepherd  watches  over  the 
stray  lamb ! I hear  a shriek  of  joy ! A well-dressed 
woman  before  me  sees  her ; with  tho  spring  of  an  ante- 
lope she  seizes  her,  presses  her  lips  to  those  little  chilled 
limbs,  then  holds  her,  at  arms’  length,  pushes  back  the 
hair  from  her  forehead,  strains  her  again  to  her  breast, 
while  tears  of  gratitude  fall  like  rain  from  her  eyes ; then 
lifts  her  far  above  her  head,  as  if  to  say,  “ 0 God,  I 
thank  thee  ! ” 

What  can  this  pantomime  mean  ? — for  not  a word 
have  they  spoken,  amid  all  these  sobs  and  caresses. 
“ What  does  this  mean  ? ” said  I to  a bystander.  “ 0 
and  it ’s  a child  come  over  from  the  old  counthry,  ma’am, 
to  find  her  mother ; and  sure,  she ’s  just  met  her  in  the 
street,  and  the  hearts  of  ’em  are  most  breaking  with  the 
joy,  you  see.”  “ God  be  thanked!  ” said  1,  as  I wept  too ; 
“ the  dove  has  found  the  ark,  the  lamb  its  fold.  Let  the 
chill  wind  blow,  she  will  heed  it  not ! The  little,  weary 
nead  shall  be  pillowed,  sweetly,  to-night,  on  that  loving 
breast : the  chilled  limbs  be  warmed  and  clothed ; the 
desolate  little  heart  shall  beat  quick  with  love  and 
hope.”  And  there  I left  them,  — still  caressing,  still 
weeping,  — unconscious  of  the  crowd  that  had  gathered 
about  them,  forgetting  the  weary  years  of  the  past 


fHE  STRAY  TiAMB. 


165 


pressing  a life-time  of  happiness  into  the  joy  of  those 
blissful  moments. 

“ Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  little 
ones,  for  I say  unto  you  that  in  heaven  their  angels  do 
always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father.’' 


LENA  MAI; 


OR,  DARKNESS  AND  LIGHT. 

Sdch  a gloomy  room  as  it  was ! You  may  sometimes 
have  seen  one  just  like  it.  The  walls  were  dingy,  the 
windows  small,  the  furniture  scanty  and  shabby.  In  one 
corner  was  a small  bed,  and  on  it  a boy  of  about  nine 
years ; so  pallid,  so  emaciated,  that,  as  he  lay  there  with 
his  long  lashes  sweeping  his  pale  cheeky  you  could  scarce 
tell  if  he  were  living.  At  the  foot  of  tho  bed  sat  a lady, 
whose  locks  sorrow,  not  time,  had  silvered.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  hopelessly  in  her  lap,  and  her  lips  moved  as 
if  in  silent  prayer. 

“ Good  morning,  Mrs.  May,”  said  the  doctor,  as  he 
laid  aside  his  gold-headed  cane,  very  pompously.  “I 
have  but  a minute  to  spare.  General  Clay  has  another 
attack  of  the  gout,  and  can’t  get  along  without  me. 
How ’s  the  boy  ? ” and  he  glanced  carelessly  at  the  bed. 

“ He  seems  more  than  usually  feeble,”  said  the  mother, 
dejectedly,  as  the  doctor  examined  his  pulse. 

“ Well,  all  he  wants  is  something  strengthening,  in  the 
way  of  nourishment,  to  set  him  on  his  feet.  Wine  and 


LENA  MAY. 


167 


Jellies,  Mrs.  May,  — that ’s  the  thing  for  him^  — that  will 
do  it.  Good  morning,  ma’am.” 

‘‘  Wine  and  jellies ! ” said  the  poor  widow  ; and  the 
tears  started  to  her  eyes,  for  she  remembered  sunnier 
days,  when  those  now  unattainable  luxuries  were  sent 
away  untasted  from  her  well-furnished  table,  rejected 
by  a capricious  appetite  ; and  she  rose  and  laid  her  hand 
lovingly  on  the  little  sufferer’s  head,  and  prisoned  the 
warm  tears  ’neath  her  closed  eyelids. 

Little  Charley  was  blind.  He  had  never  seen  the  face 
that  was  bending  over  him ; but  he  knew,  by  the  tone  of 
her  voice,  whether  she  was  glad  or  grieving ; and  there 
was  a heart-quiver  in  it  now,  as  she  said,  “ Dear,  patient 
boy,”  that  made  his  little  heart  beat  faster  ; and  he 
pressed  his  pale  lips  to  her  hand,  as  if  he  would  convey 
all  he  felt  in  that  kiss ; for  love  and  sorrow  had  taught 
Charley  a lesson  — many  of  his  seniors  were  more  slow 
to  learn  — to  endure  silently,  rather  than  add  to  the  sor- 
row of  a heart  so  tried  and  grief-stricken.  And  so, 
through  those  tedious  days,  and  long,  wearisome  nights, 
the  little  sufferer  uttered  no  word  of  complaint,  though 
the  outer  and  inner  world  was  all  darkness  to  him. 


Gently,  noiselessly  a young,  fair  girl  glided  into  the 
room.  She  passed  to  the  bedside  ; then,  stooping  so  low 


LENA  may;  or 


that  her  raven  ringlets  floated  on  the  pillow,  she  lightl} 
pressed  her  dewy  lips  to  the  blind  boy’s  forehead. 

“ That ’s  your  kiss,  Lena,”  said  he,  tenderly.  “ I ’m 
so  glad  you  are  come  ! ” and  he  threw  his  wasted  arms 
about  her  neck.  “ Put  your  face  down  here,  — close, 
Lena,  close.  The  doctor  has  been  here,  and  mamma 
thought  me  sleeping ; but  I heard  all.  He  said  I must 
have  wine  and  jellies  to  make  me  well,  and  dear  mamma 
so  poor,  too ! 0,  you  should  have  heard  her  sigh  so 

heavily ! And,  Lena,  though  I cannot  see,  I was  sure 
her  eyes  were  brimming,  for  her  voice  had  tears  in  it. 
Now,  Lena,  I want  you  to  tell  her  not  to  grieve,  because 
Charley  is  going  to  heaven.  I dreamed  about  it  last 
night,  Lena.  I was  n’t  a blind  boy  any  longer  ; and  I 
saw  such  glorious  things.” 

“ Don’t,  don’t,  Charley ! ” said  the  young  girl,  sobbing. 
“ Take  your  arms  from  my  neck.  You  shall  live.  Char- 
ley,  — you  shall  have  everything  you  need.  Let  me  go, 
now,  there ’s  a darling and  she  tied  on  her  little  bon- 
net, and  passed  through  the  dark,  narrow  court,  and 
gained  the  street. 

“ Wine  and  jellies !”  — yes,  Charley  must  have  them 
but  how  ? Her  little  purse  was  quite  empty,  and  the 
doctor’s  bill  was  a perfect  night-mare  to  think  of.  0, 
how  many  tables  were  loaded  with  the  luxuries  that  were 
strength,  health,  life,  to  poor  Charley ! — and  she  walked 
on  despairingly.  The  bright  blue  sky  seemed  to  mock 


DARKNESS  AND  LIGHT. 


169 


her ; the  well-clad  forms  and  happy  faces  to  taunt  her 
O,  throbbed  there  on  the  wide  earth  one  heart  of  pity  ? 
Poor  Lena ! — excitement  lent  a deeper  glow  to  her 
cheek,  and  a brighter  lustre  to  her  eye ; and  the  cold 
wind  blew  her  long  tresses  wildly  about.  One  could 
scarce  see  a lovelier  face  than  Lena’s  then,  — so  full  of 
love,  so  full  of  sorrow. 

At  least  so  thought  Ernest  Clay ; for  he  stopped  and 
looked,  and  passed,  and  looked  again.  It  was  the  embod- 
iment of  all  his  artist  dreams.  “ I must  sketch  it,”  said 
he  to  himself.  “ She  is  poor,  — that  is  evident  from  her 
dress ; that  she  is  pure  and  innocent,  one  may  see  in  the 
holy  expression  of  her  face.”  And  low  and  musical  was 
the  voice  which  expressed  his  request  to  Lena.  His  tone 
was  respectful ; but  his  ardent  look  embarrassed  her,  and 
she  veiled  her  bright  eyes  with  their  long  lashes,  without 
replying. 

“ If  your  time  is  precious,  you  shall  be  well  paid  ; — 
it  will  not  take  you  long.  Will  money  be  any  object  to 
you  ? ” 

“ O,  yes,  yes  ! ” said  Lena,  despair  giving  her  courage. 
“ O,  sir,  I have  a brother,  sick,  dying  for  necessaries 
beyond  our  reach ! Give  me  some  wine  to  keep  him 
from  sinking  — now,  if  you  please,  sir  . ” — and  she 
blushed  at  her  own  earnestness,  — “ then  I will  come  to 
you  to-morrow  My  name  is  Lena  May.” 


no 


GENA  may:  or, 


“ Dear,  dear  mother  ! — wine  for  Charley,  and  more 
when  this  is  gone.” 

“ Lena ! ” said  her  mother,  alarmed  at  her  wild,  excited 
manner.  • 

“ An  artist,  mother,  gave  me  this,  if  I would  let  him 
make  a sketch  of  me.  Dear  Charley  ! ” — and  she  held 
the  tempting  luxury  to  his  fever-parched  lip,  — “ drink, 
Charley.  Now  you  ’ll  be  strong  and  well,  and  all  for 
this  foolish  face and  she  laughed  hysterically ; then  her 
hands  fell  at  her  side,  her  head  drooped ; the  excite- 
ment was  too  much  for  her,  — she  had  fainted. 


“ There,  that  will  do ; thank  you.  Now  turn  your 
head  a trifle  to  the  left,  so and  the  young  artist’s  eye 
brightened  as  his  hand  moved  over  the  canvas.  In  truth 
it  were  hard  to  find  a lovelier  model.  That  full,  dark 
eye  and  Grecian  profile  ; that  wealth  of  raven  hair,  those 
dimpled  shoulders.  Yes,  Lena  was  the  realization  of  all 
his  artist  dreams  ; — and  then,  she  was  so  pure,  so  inno- 
cent. Practised  fiatterer  as  he  was,  professionally,  praise 
seemed  out  of  place  now,  — it  died  upon  his  lip.  He 
had  transferred  many  a lovely  face  to  canvas,  but  never 
one  so  holy  in  its  expression. 

And  little  Charley,  day  by  day,  grew  stronger ; and 
rare  fiowers  lay  upon  his  bed  ; and  he  inhaled  their  fra- 


DARKNESS  AND  LIGHT. 


171 


granoe,  and  passed  his  slender  fingers  over  them  caress- 
ingly, as  if  their  beauty  could  be  conveyed  by  the  touch. 
And  then  he  would  listen  for  Lena’s  light  footstep,  and 
ask  her,  on  her  return,  a thousand  questions  about  the 
picture,  and  sigh  as  he  said,  “ I can  never  know,  dear 
sister,  if  it  is  like  you and  then  he  would  say,  “ You 
will  not  love  this  artist  better  than  me,  Lena?”  and  then 
Lena  would  blush,  and  say,  “No  you  foolish  boy  ! ” 


“ Well,  Lena,”  said  Ernest,  “ your  picture  will  be 
finished  to-day.  I suppose  you  are  quite  glad  it  is  over 
with  ? ” 

“ Charley  misses  me  so  much  ! ” was  love’s  quick 
evasion. 

“There  are  still  many  comforts  you  would  get  for 
Charley,  were  you  able,  Lena  ? ” 

“ O,  yes,  yes  ! ” said  the  young  girl,  eagerly. 

“ And  your  mother,  she  is  too  delicate  to  toil  so  unre 
fittingly  ? ” 

“ Tes,”  said  Lena,  dejectedly. 

“ Dear,  good,  lovely  Lena ! they  shall  both  have  such  a 
happy  home,  only  say  you  will  be  mine.” 

Dear  reader,  you  should  have  peeped  into  that  artist’s 
home.  You  should  have  seen  the  proud,  happy  husband. 
^Tou  should  have  seen  with  what  a sweet  grace  the  little 


i72 


LENA  M A t . 


child- wife  performed  her  dutj  as  its  mistress.  You 
should  have  seen  Charley  with  his  birds  and  his  flowers, 
and  heard  his  merry  laugh,  as  he  said  to  his  mother,  that 
“ if  he  was  blind,  he  always  saw  that  Ernest  would  steal 
away  our  Lena.” 


THOUGHTS  BORN  OF  A CARESS 


“ O,  WHAT  a nice  place  to  cry  ! ” said  a laughing  little 
girl,  as  she  nestled  her  head  lovingly  on  her  mother’s 
breast. 

The  words  were  spoken  playfully,  and  the  little  fairy 
was  all  unconscious  how  much  meaning  lay  hid  in  them ; 
but  they  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes,  for  I looked  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  care  and  trial  should  throw  their 
shadows  over  that  laughing  face,  — when  adversity  should 
overpower,  — when  summer  friends  should  fall  off  like 
autumn  leaves  before  the  rough  blast  of  misfortune, — 
when  the  faithful  breast  she  leaned  upon  should  be  no 
longer  warm  with  love  and  life,  — when,  in  all  the  wide 
earth,  there  should  be  for  that  little  one  no  nice  place  to 
cry.” 

God  shield  the  motherless ! A father  may  be  left,  — 
kind,  affectionate,  considerate,  perhaps,  — but  a man’s 
affections  form  but  a small  fraction  of  his  existence.  His 
thoughts  are  far  away,  even  while  his  child  clambers  on 
his  knee.  The  distant  ship  with  its  rich  freight,  the  state 
of  the  money-market,  the  fluctuations  of  trade,  the  office, 
tlie  shop,  the  bench ; and  he  answers  at  random  the  little 


174  A THOUGHT  BOKN  OF  A CARESS. 

lisping  immortal,  and  gives  the  child  a toy,  and  passes  on. 
The  little,  sensitive  heart  has  borne  its  childish  griefs 
through  the  day  unshared.  She  don’t  understand  the 
reason  for  anything,  and  nobody  stops  to  tell  her.  Nurse 
“ don’t  know,”  the  cook  is  “ busy,”  and  so  she  wanders 
restlessly  about,  thi*ough  poor  mamma’s  empty  room. 
Something  is  wanting.  Ah,  there  is  no  “ nice  place  to 
cry  ! ” 

Childhood  passes  ; blooming  maidenhood  comes  on  ; 
lovers  woo ; the  mother’s  quick  instinct,  timely  word  of 
caution,  and  omnipresent  watchfulness,  are  not  there. 
She  gives  her  heart,  with  ail  its  yearning  sympathies, 
into  unworthy  keeping.  A fleeting  honey-moon,  then 
the  dawning  of  a long  day  of  misery ; wearisome  days 
of  sickness ; the  feeble  moan  of  the  first-born  ; no  moth- 
er’s arm  in  which  to  place,  with  girlish  pride,  the  little 
wailing  stranger  ; lover  and  friend  afar  ; no  “ nice  place 
to  cry  ! ” 

Thank  Gr  1 ! — not  unheard  by  Him,  who  “ wipeth  all 
tears  away,”  goeth  up  that  troubled  heart-plaiut  from  the 
despairing  lips  of  the  motherless  ! 


A CHAPTER  ON  LITERARY 
WOMEN. 


Well,  Colonel,  what  engrosses  your  thoughts  m 
entirely  this  morning  ? The  last  new  fashion  for  vests, 
the  price  of  Macassar  oil,  or  the  misfit  of  your  last  pair 
of  primrose  kids  ? Make  a ‘ clean  breast  ’ of  it.’' 

“ Come,  Minnie,  don’t  be  satirical.  I ’ve  a perfect 
horror  of  satirical  women.  There ’s  no  such  thing  as 
repose  in  their  presence.  One  needs  to  be  always  on  the 
defensive,  armed  at  all  points ; and  then,  like  as  not,  some 
arrow  will  pierce  the  joints  of  his  armor.  Be  amiable, 
Minnie,  and  listen  to  me.  I want  a wife.” 

“You!  a man  of  your  resources!  Clubs,  cigars,  fast 
horses,  operas,  concerts,  theatres,  billiard-rooms  ! Can’t 
account  for  it,”  said  the  merciless  Minnie.  “Had  a 
premonitory  symptom  of  a crow’s  foot,  or  a gray  hair  i 
Has  old  Time  begun  to  step  on  your  bachelor  toes  ? ” and 
she  levelled  her  eye-glass  at  his  fine  figure. 

The  Colonel  took  up  a book,  with  a very  injured  air,  as 
much  as  to  say,  — Have  it  out,  fair  lady,  and  when  you 
get  oft'  your  stilts,  I ’ll  talk  reason  to  you. 

But  Minnie  had  no  idea  of  getting  off  her  stilts ; so  sh« 


176  A CHAPTER  ON  J\TERAIIY  WOMEN. 

proceeded,  — “Want  a wife,  do  you?  1 don’t  see  but 
your  buttons,  and  stridgs,  and  straps,  are  all  tip-top. 
Four  laundress  attends  to  your  wardrobe,  your  hotel  de 
maitre  to  your  appetite,  you ’ve  nice  snug  quarters  at  the 

House,  plenty  of  ‘ fine  fellows  ’ to  drop  in  upon 

you,  and  what  in  the  name  of  the  gods  do  you  want  of  a 
‘ wife  ? ’ And  if  it  is  a necessity  that  is  not  postponable, 
what  description  of  apron-string  does  your  High  Mighti- 
ness desire  ? I Ve  an  idea  you ’ve  only  to  name  the 
thing,  and  there ’d  be  a perfect  crowd  of  applicants  for 
the  situation.  Come,  bestir  yourself,  Sir  Oracle,  open 
your  mouth,  and  trot  out  your  ideal.” 

“Well,  then,  negatively,  I don’t  want  a literary 
woman.  I should  desire  my  wife’s  thoughts  and  feelings 
to  centre  in  me,  — to  be  content  in  the  little  kingdom 
where  I reign  supreme,  — to  have  the  capacity  to  appre- 
ciate me,  but  not  brilliancy  enough  to  outshine  me,  or  to 
attract  ‘ outsiders.’  ” 

“I  like  that,  because  ’tis  so  unselfish,”  said  Minnie, 
with  mock  humility.  “Go  on.” 

“You  see,  Minnie,  these  literary  women  live  on  public 
admiration, — glory  in  seeing  themselves  in  print.  Just 
fancy  my  wife’s  heart  turned  inside-out  to  thousands  of 
eyes  beside  mine,  for  dissection.  Fancy  her  quickening 
ten  thousand  strange  pulses  with  ‘ thoughts  that  breathe 
and  words  that  burn.’  Fancy  me  walking  meekly  by  her 
aide,  known  only  as  Mr.  Somebody,  that  the  talented  Misi? 


A CHAPTER  ON  LITERARY  WOMEN.  17” 


condescended  to  marry.  Horrible  ! Minnie,  i 

tell  you,  literary  women  are  a sort  of  nondescript  mon- 
sters ; nothing  feminine  about  them.  They  are  as  ambi 
tious  as  Lucifer  ; else,  why  do  they  write  ? ” 

“Because  they  can’t  help  it,”  said  Minnie,  with  a 
flashing  eye.  “ Why  does  a bird  carol  ? There  is  that 
in  such  a soul  that  will  not  be  pent  up,  — that  must  find 
voice  and  expression ; a heaven -kindled  spark,  that  is 
unquenchable ; an  earnest,  soaring  spirit,  whose  wings 
cannot  be  earth-clipped.  These  very  qualities  fit  it  to 
appreciate,  with  a zest  none  else  may  know,  the  strong, 
deep  love  of  a kindred  human  heart.  Beverence,  respect, 
indeed,  such  a soul  claims  and  exacts ; but  think  you  it 
will  be  satisfied  with  that  ? No ! It  craves  the  very 
treasure  you  would  wrest  from  it.  Love  ! That  there  are 
vain  and  ambitious  female  writers,  is  true ; but  pass  no 
sweeping  condemnation;  there  are  literary  womer  who 
have  none  the  less  deserved  the  holy  names  of  wii  3 and 
mother,  because  God  has  granted  to  them  the  power  of 
expressing  the  same  tide  of  emotions  that  sweep,  per 
chance,  over  the  soul  of  another,  whose  lips  have  never 
been  touched  ‘with  a coal  from  the  altar.’  ” 


“ Gt)od  morning,  Colonel,”  said  Minnie ; “ how  did  you 
like  the  lady  to  whom  I introduced  you  last  evening  ? ” 

“ Like  her  ? I don’t  like  her  at  all,  — [ love  her 
H*  le 


178  A CHAPTER  ON  LITERARY  WOMEN. 

She  took  me  by  storm ! Minnie,  that  woman  must  be 
Mrs.  Col.  Van  Zandt.  She^s  my  ideal  of  a wife  em- 
bodied.” 

“ I thought  she  ’d  suit  you,”  said  Minnie,  not  trusting 
herself  to  look  up.  “She’s  very  attractive*  but  t/e 
you  sure  you  can  secure  her  ? ” 

“Well,  I flatter  myself,”  said  the  Colonel,  glancing  at 
an  opposite  mirror,  “ I shall,  at  least,  ‘ die  making  an 
effort,’  before  I take  No  for  an  answer.  Charming 
woman  ! feminine  from  her  shoe-lacings  to  the  tips  of  her 
eyebrows;  no  blue-stockings  peeping  from  under  the 
graceful  folds  of  her  silken  robe.  What  a charmed  life 
a man  might  lead  with  her ! Her  fingers  never  dabbleo 
with  ink,  thank  Heaven!  She  must  be  Mrs.  Col.  Van 
Zandt,  Minnie ! ” 

She  was  “Mrs.  Col.  Van  Zandt.”  A week  after  their 
marriage,  Minnie  came  in,  looking  uncommonly  wicked 
and  mistnievous.  “ What  a turtle-dove  scene ! ’ ’ said  she, 
as  she  sk  od  at  the  door.  “ Do  you  know  I never  peep 
into  Parauise,  that  I don’t  feel  a Luciferish  desire  to 
raise  a mutiny  among  the  celestials  ? And  apropos  of 
that,  you  recollect  ‘ Abelard,’  Colon^^-l ; and  the  beautiful 
‘ Zeluka,’  by  the  same  anonymox:^  ^rv^riter ; and  those 
little  essays  by  the  same  hand,  that  you  hoarded  up  so 
long?  Well,  I’ve  discovered  the  author,  — after  a 
persevering  investigation  among  the  knowing  ones,  — the 
anonymous  author,  with  the  signature  of  ‘ Heloise.  You 


A CnAPlJfiK  ON  LITER  Ally  WOMEN.  179 


have  your  matrimonial  arm  around  her  this  minute ! May 
1 be  kissed  if  you  haven’t!  ” and  she  threw  herself  on 
the  sofa  in  a paroxysm  of  mirth.  “ 0,  Colonel ! ‘ marry 
a woman  who  has  just  sense  enough  to  appreciate  you, 
and  not  brilliancy  enough  to  attract  outsiders ! Fancy 
my  wife  quickening  ten  thousand  strange  pulses  with 
thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn  1 Fancy  me 
walking  meekly  by  her  side,  known  only  as  the  Mr. 

Somebody  the  talented  Miss  condescended  to 

marry  ’ ! I declare,  I ’m  sorry  for  you,  Colonel ; you 
have  my  everlasting  sympathy  ; you  look  already  like  a 
a man  ‘ iransported  for  life ! ’ ” 

“Jjaughaway,  Minnie!  You  might  have  played  me 
a woMe  trick,  — for  instance,  had  you  married  me  your- 
self! ‘ Heloise  ’ or  Amy,  ’tis  all  one  to  me,  so  long  as 
I can  call  her  wife.  I ’m  quite  happy  enough  to  be 
wilhng  you  should  enjoy  your  triumph ; and  quite  will- 
ing to  subscribe,  on  my  knees,  to  your  creed,  that  a 
woman  may  be  literary,  and  yet  feminine  an^  lovable ; 
content  to  find  her  greatest  happiness  in  thi  diarmed 
circle  of  Home.” 


HE  WHO  HAS  MOST  OF  HEART. 


“ He  who  has  most  of  heart  knows  most  of  sorrow.’* 

Yes,  yes,  — they  are  a fair  target  for  the  envious 
che  malicious,  the  selfish,  and  the  crafty.  God  pity 
them,  when  the  wide  world  is  before  them ; — when 
every  rough  breath  of  unkindness  sends  a chill  like  death 
to  the  trusting  heart ; — when  the  coarse  sneer,  and  brutal 
jest,  fall  with  a crucifying  sharpness  on  the  sensitive  ear , 
— when  private  griefs  and  sorrows,  borne  with  all  their 
crushing  weight  unshared,  too  sacred  to  be  trusted  to 
ears  that  may  prove  treacherous,  are  rudely  probed,  and 
laid  bare  to  careless  eyes,  by  hands  and  tongues  that 
should  say,  “ Lean  on  me,  I will  shelter  you.” 

Yes,  yes,  — most  of  heart,  most  of  sorrow  ! Treachery 
repaid  for  trust,  — once,  twice,  thrice,  — the  heart  still 
throwing  out  its  tendrils  to  clasp  again  but  a crumbling 
ruin . Leaves  — buds  — fiowers  — stem,  all  trampled  un- 
der the  ruthless  foot.  The  same  blue,  mocking  sky  over- 
head ; the  same  heavy  thunder-cloud  ever  looming  up  in 
the  distance.  The  little  bark,  feebly  piloted,  dashing  on 
imid  the  billows,  amid  rocks,  and  shoals,  and  quicksands 


HE  WHO  HAS  MOST  OF  HEART.  l?St 

no  strong  arm  to  help ; no  friendly  voice  to  say,  ‘‘  God 
speed  you ! ” no  hope  on  earth  ; no  haven  of  rest ; no 
olive  branch  for  the  weary  dove.  The  waters  never 
assuaged ; the  bow  of  peace  never  in  the  heavens.  The 
feeble,  fluttering  wing  beaten  earthward  when  it  would 
soar.  0,  surely,  “ he  who  has  most  of  heart  knows  most 
of  sorrow ! ” 


DARK  DAYS. 


“Dying!  How  can  you  ever  struggle  througn  the 
world  alone  ? Who  will  care  for  you,  J anie,  when  I am 
dead?” 


“ Have  you  rooms  to  let  ? said  a lady  in  sable  to  a 
hard-featured  person. 

“ Rooms  ? Why  — yes  — we  have  rooms ; ” surveying 
Mrs.  Grey  very  deliberately.  “ You  are  a widow,  I sup- 
pose ? Thought  so  by  the  length  of  your  veil.  Been  in 
the  city  long  ? How  long  has  your  husband  been  dead  ? 
What  was  the  matter  of  him  ? Take  in  sewing  or  any- 
thing ? Got  any  reference  ? How  old  is  that  child  of 
yours  ? ” 

“I  hardly  think  the  situation  will  suit,”  said  Mrs* 
Grey,  faintly,  as  she  rose  to  go. 

“Don’t  cry,  mamma,”  said  Charley,  as  they  gained 
the  street.  “ Won’t  God  take  care  of  us  ? ” 


“ Put  another  stick  of  wood  on  the  fire,  Charley ; my 
fingers  are  quite  benumbed,  and  I ’ve  a long  while  to 
work  yet.” 


DARK  DAYS. 


183 


“ There ’s  not  even  a chip  left,  said  the  boy,  mourn- 
fully,  rubbing  his  little  purple  hands.  “It  seems  as 
though  I should  never  groTv  a big  man,  so  that  I could 
help  you ! ” 


“ Hist ! there ’s  a rap.”  “ Work  done  ? ” said  a rough 
Yoice ; “ cause,  if  you  ain’t  up  to  the  mark,  you  can’t  have 
any  more.  ‘ No  fire,  and  cold  fingers.'  Same  old  story. 
Business  is  business ; I ’ve  no  time  to  talk  about  your 
affairs.  Women  never  can  look  at  a thing  in  a com- 
mercial p’int  of  view.  What  I want  to  know  is  in  a nut- 
shell. Is  them  shirts  done  or  not,  young  woman  ? ” 

“ Indeed,  there  is  only  one  finished,  though  I have  done 
my  best,”  said  Mrs.  Grey. 

“Well,  hand  it  along;  you  won’t  get  any  more;  and 
sit  up  to-night  and  finish  the  rest,  d’  ye  hear  ? ” 


“ Have  you  vests  that  you  wish  embroidered,  sir  ? ” 
“Y-e-s,”  said  the  gentleman  (?)  addressed,  casting  a 
look  of  admiration  at  Mrs.  Grey.  — “ Here,  J ames,  run 
out  with  this  money  to  the  bank.  — Wish  it  for  yourself 
madam  ? ” said  he  blandly.  “ Possible  ? Pity  to  spoil 
those  blue  eyes  over  such  drudgery.” 

A moment,  and  he  was  alone. 


84 


DARK  DAYS 


“ He ’s  a very  sick  child,”  said  the  doctor,  “ and 
.here ’s  very  little  chance  for  him  to  get  well  here ; ” 
drawing  his  furred  coat  to  his  ears,  as  the  wind  whistled 
through  the  cracks.  “ Have  you  no  friends  in  the  city 
where  he  could  be  better  provided  for  ? ” 

Mrs.  Grey  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

“Well,  I’ll  send  him  some  medicine  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow we  will  see  what  can  be  done  for  him.” 

“To-morrow!”  All  the  long  night  the  storm  raged 
fearfully.  The  driving  sleet  sifted  in  through  the  loose 
windows,  that  rattled,  and  trembled,  and  shook.  Mrs. 
Grey  hushed  her  breath,  as  she  watched  the  little,  waxen 
face,  and  saw  that  look  creep  over  it  that  comes  but 
once.  The  sands  of  life  were  fast  ebbing.  The  little 
taper  flickered  and  flashed  — and  then  — went  out  for- 
ever ! 


It  was  in  the  “ poor  man’s  lot  ” that  Harry  Grey’s  pet 
/)oy  was  buried.  There  were  no  carriages,  no  mourners, 
no  hearse.  Mrs.  Grey  shuddered,  as  the  wagon  jolted 
over  the  rough  stones  to  the  old  burying-place.  She 
uttered  a faint  scream,  as  the  sexton  hit  the  coffin  against 
the  wagon  in  lifting  it  out.  Again  and  again  she  stayed 
his  hand,  when  he  would  have  fastened  down  the  lid ; she 
heard  with  fearful  distinctness  the  first  heavy  clod  that 
fell  upon  her  boy’s  breast ; she  looked  on  with  a dreadful 
fiKcination,  while  he  filled  up  the  grave;  she  saw  the  last 


DARK  DAYS. 


shovelflil  of  earth  stamped  down  over  him,  and  when 
the  sexton  touched  her  arm,  and  pointed  to  the  wagon 
she  followed  him  mechanically,  and  made  no  objection, 
when  he  said  “he  guessed  he ’d  drive  a little  faster,  now 
that  the  lad  was  out.”  He  looked  at  her  once  or  twice, 
and  thought  it  very  odd  that  she  did  n’t  cry ; but  he 
didn’t  profess  to  understand  women  folks.  So,  when  it 
was  quite  dusk,  they  came  back  again  to  the  old  wooden 
house ; and  there  he  left  her,  with  the  still  night  and  her 
crushing  sorrow. 


“ Who  will  care  for  you,  J anie,  when  I am  dead  ? ” 


NIGHT. 


Night  ! The  pulse  of  the  great  city  lies  still.  The 
echo  of  hurrying  feet  has  long  since  died  away.  The 
maiden  dreams  of  her  lover ; the  wife,  of  her  absent 
husband ; the  sick,  of  health ; the  captive,  of  freedom. 
Softly  falls  the  moonlight  on  those  quiet  dwellings ; yet 
under  those  roofs  are  hearts  that  are  throbbing  and 
breaking  with  misery  too  hopeless  for  tears ; forms  bent 
before  their  time  with  crushing  sorrow ; lips  that  never 
smile,  save  when  some  mocking  dream  comes  to  render 
the  morrow’s  waking  tenfold  more  bitter.  There,  on  a 
mother’s  faithful  breast,  calm  and  beautiful,  lies  the  holy 
brow  of  infancy.  0,  could  it  but  pass  away  thus,  ere  the 
bow  of  promise  has  ceased  to  span  its  future! — ere  that 
serenest  sky  be  darkened  with  lowering  clouds ! — ere 
that  loving  heart  shall  feel  the  death-pang  of  despair  ! 

There,  too,  sits  Kemorse,  clothed  in  purple  and  fine 
linen,  “ the  worm  that  never  dieth  ” hid  in  its  shining 
folds.  There,  the  weary  watcher  by  the  couch  of  pain, 
the  dull  ticking  of  the  clock  striking  to  the  heart  a name- 
less terror.  With  straining  eye  its  hours  are  counted ; 
with  nervous  hand  the  draught  that  brings  no  healing 
is  held  to  the  pallid  lip. 


NIGHT . 


191 


The  measured  tread  of  the  watchman  as  he  passes  his 
round,  the  distant  rumble  of  the  coach,  perchance  the 
disjointed  fragment  of  a song  from  bacchanalian  lips, 
alone  breaks  the  solemn  stillness.  At  such  an  hour, 
serious  thoughts,  like  unbidden  guests,  rush  in.  Life 
appears  like  the  dream  it  is.  Eternity,  the  waking  ; and, 
involuntarily,  the  most  careless  eye  looks  up  appealingly 
to  Him  by  whom  the  hairs  of  our  heads  are  all  numbered. 

Blessed  night ! Wrap  thy  dark  mantle  round  these 
weary  earth-pilgrims!  Over  them  all  the  “Eye  that 
never  slumbereth  ” keepeth  its  tireless  watch.  Never  a 
fluttering  sigh  escapes  a human  breast  unheard  by  that 
pitying  ear.  Never  an  unspoken  prayer  for  help,  that 
finds  not  its  pitying  response  in  the  bosom  of  Infinite 
mercy. 


CHILDREN’S  RIGHTS. 


Men’s  rights ! Women’s  rights ! I throw  down  the 
gauntlet  for  children’s  rights ! Yes,  little  pets,  Fanny 
Fern ’s  about  “takin’  notes,”  and  she  ’ll  “print  ’em,”  too, 
if  you  don’t  get  your  dues.  She  has  seen  you  seated  by 
a pleasant  window,  in  a railroad  car,  with  your  bright 
eyes  dancing  with  delight,  at  the  prospect  of  all  the 
pretty  things  you  were  going  to  see,  forcibly  ejected  by 
some  overgrown  Napoleon,  who  fancied  your  place,  and 
thought,  in  his  wisdom,  that  children  had  no  taste  for 
anything  but  sugar-candy.  Fanny  Fern  knew  better 
She  knew  that  the  pretty  trees  and  flowers,  and  bright 
blue  sky,  gave  your  little  souls  a thrill  of  delight,  though 
you  could  not  tell  why;  and  she  knew  that  great  big  man’s 
soul  was  a great  deal  smaller  than  yours,  to  sit  there  and 
read  a stupid  political  paper,  when  such  a glowing  land- 
scape was  before  him,  that  he  might  have  feasted  his  eyes 
upon.  And  she  longed  to  wipe  away  the  big  tear  that 
you  did  n’t  dare  to  let  fall ; and  she  understood  how  a 
httle  girl  or  boy,  that  did  n’t  get  a ride  every  day  in  the 
year,  should  not  be  quite  able  to  swallow  that  great  big 
lump  in  the  throat,  as  he  or  she  sat  jammed  down  in  a 


children’s  rights. 


m 


dark,  crowded  corner  of  the  car,  instead  of  sitting  by  that 
pleasant  window. 

Yes ; and  Fanny  has  seen  you  sometimes,  when  you  ’ve 
been  muffled  up  to  the  tip  of  your  little  nose  in  woollen 
wrappers,  in  a close,  crowded  church,  nodding  your  little 
drowsy  heads,  and  keeping  time  to  the  sixth-lie  and  sev- 
enth-lie of  some  pompous  theologian,  whose  preaching 
would  have  been  high  Dutch  to  you,  had  you  been  wide 
awake. 

And  she  has  seen  you  sitting,  like  little  automatons,  in 
a badly-ventilated  school-room,  with  your  nervous  little 
toes  at  just  such  an  angle,  for  hours ; under  the  tuition 
of  a Miss  Nancy  Nipper,  who  did  n’t  care  a rush-light 
whether  your  spine  was  as  crooked  as  the  letter  S or  not, 
if  the  Great  Mogul  Committee,  who  marched  in  once  a 
month  to  make  the  “ grand  tour,”  voted  her  a “ model 
school-marm.” 

Yes,  and  that  ain’t  all.  She  has  seen  you  sent  off  to 
bed,  just  at  the  witching  hour  of  candle-light,  when  some 
entertaining  guest  was  in  the  middle  of  a delightful  story, 
that  you,  poor,  miserable  “ little  pitcher,”  was  doomed 
never  to  hear  the  end  of!  Yes,  and  she  has  seen  “the 
line  and  plummet”  laid  to  you  so  rigidly,  that  you 
were  driven  to  deceit  and  evasion ; and  then  seen  you 
punished  for  the  very  sin  your  tormentors  helped  you  to 
commit.  And  she  has  seen  your  ears  boxed  just  as  hard 
for  tearing  a hole  in  your  best  pinafore,  or  breaking  a 


190 


children’s  rights. 


China  cup,  as  for  telling  as  big  a lie  as  Ananias  and 
Sapphira  did. 

And  when,  by  patient  labor,  you  had  reared  an  edifice 
of  tiny  blocks,  — fairer  in  its  architectural  proportions, 
to  your  infantile  eye,  than  any  palace  in  ancient  Rome, 

— she  has  seen  it  ruthlessly  kicked  into  a shattered 
ruin,  by  somebody  in  the  house,  whose  dinner  hadn’t 
digested ! 

Never  mind.  I wish  I was  mother  to  the  whole  of 
you  ! Such  glorious  times  as  we ’d  have  ! Reading 
pretty  books,  that  had  no  big  words  in  ’em ; going  to 
school  where  you  could  sneeze  without  getting  a rap 
on  the  head  for  not  asking  leave  first ; and  going  to 
church  on  the  quiet,  blessed  Sabbath,  where  the  min- 
ister — like  our  dear  Saviour  — sometimes  remembered 
to  “ take  little  children  in  his  arms,  and  bless  them.” 

Then,  if  you  asked  me  a question,  I wouldn’t  pre- 
tend not  to  hear ; or  lazily  tell  you  I “ did  n’t  know,” 
or  turn  you  off  with  some  fabulous  evasion,  for  your 
memory  to  chew  for  a cud  till  you  were  old  enough  to 
see  how  you  had  b^en  fooled.  And  T ’d  never  wear 
such  a fashionable  gown  that  you  could  n’t  climb  on  my 
lap  whenever  the  fit  took  you ; or  refuse  to  kiss  you,  for 
fear  you ’d  ruffle  my  curls,  or  my  collar,  or  my  temper, 

— not  a bit  of  it;  and  then  you  should  pay  me  with 
your  merry  laugh,  and  your  little  confiding  hand  slid 
ever  trustingly  in  mine. 


children’s  rights. 


0,  I tell  you,  my  little  pets,  Fanny  is  sick  of  din, 
and  strife,  and  en\'y,  and  uncharitableness  ! — and  she ’d 
rather,  by  ten  thousand,  live  in  a little  world  fiill  of 
fresh,  guileless,  loving  little  children,  than  in  this  great 
museum  fiill  of  such  dry,  dustv.  withered  hearts. 


SORROW  S TEACHINGS. 


‘‘  How  is  it,”  said  I,  despondingly,  to  Aunt  Milly 
that  you,  who  have  been  steeped  to  the  lips  in  trouble 
C5an  be  so  cheerfld  ? ” 

Listen  to  me,  Ellen.  You  know  my  first  great  sor- 
row, — the  loss  of  my  husband.  When  the  grave  closed 
over  him,  the  star  of  hope  faded  from  my  sky.  I could 
see  no  mercy  in  the  Hand  that  dealt  that  blow.  The 
green  earth  became  one  wide  sepulchre ; the  sweet  min- 
istrations of  nature  had  no  healing  power.  In  my  selfish 
despair,  I would  have  shrouded  the  blue  heavens  in  sable, 
and  thrown  a pall  of  gloom  over  every  happy  heart. 
Months  passed  by  slowly,  wearily,  and  I found  no  allevi- 
ation of  my  sorrow ; no  tears  came  to  ease  that  dull,  dead 
pain  that  seemed  crushing  the  life  from  out  my  heart ; no 
star  of  Bethlehem  shone  through  the  dark  cloud  over  my 
head. 

“ I was  sitting  one  afternoon,  as  usual,  motionless  and 
speechless.  It  was  dark  and  gloomy  without,  as  my  soul 
within.  The  driving  sleet  beat  heavily  against  the  win* 
dows.  Twilight  had  set  in.  My  little  Charley  had 
patiently  tried  for  hours  to  amuse  himself  with  his  toys 


SORBOW’S  TEACHINGS 


m 


now  and  then  glancing  sadly  at  my  mournfiil  face.  But 
the  oppressive  gloom  was  becoming  unendurable  to  the 
child.  At  length,  creeping  slowly  to  my  side,  and  lean- 
ing heavily  against  my  shoulder,  he  said,  in  a half  sob, 
‘ Does  God  love  to  see  you  look  so,  mamma  ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,  no,  Charley  ! ’ said  I,  as  I clasped  him  to  my 
heart  with  repentant  tears.  ‘ No,  no ! — I ’li  cloud  vour 
inny  face  no  longer.’ 

“ Alas ! dear  Ellen,  I but  turned  from  one  idol  to 
another  ; — I gave  God  the  se  cond  place,  and  lived  only 
for  my  boy  ; and  so  my  wayvard  heart  needed  another 
lesson.  The  grave  took  in  my  last  earthly  treasure.  But 
when  the  Smiter  had  done  his  work,  those  little  lies, 
though  silent,  still  said  to  me,  ‘ God  loveth  the  cheerful 
giver and  so,  smiling  through  my  tears,  I learned  to 
say,  ‘ Thy  will  be  done.’  Dear  Ellen,  if  the  good  Father 
takes  away  wkh  one  hand,  he  gives  with  the  other. 
There  is  always  some  blessing  left.  , ‘ Ilka  blade  of  p*ras^ 
keeps  its  ain  drap  o’  dew  ! ’ ” 


INFIDEL  MOTHER. 


Caj^  it  be  ? Can  you  look  into  the  depths  of  thost 
clear  blue  eyes,  that  seek  yours  in  such  confiding,  innocent 
trust,  — can  you  deck  those  dimpled  limbs,  so  “ fearfully 
and  wonderfully  made,”  — can  you  watch  with  him  the 
first  faint  streak  of  light,  that  ushers  in  another  happy 
day,  — can  you  point  him  to  the  gold  and  purple 
sunset  glory,  — can  you  look  upward  with  him  to  the 
shining  host,  or  place  in  his  eager  hand  the  field  flowers 
which  bend  their  dewy  eyes  with  grateful  thanks,  and 
never  name  “ Our  Father  ? ” 

When,  at  dead  of  night,  you  watch  beside  his  sick 
couch  ; when  you  hush  your  very  breath,  to  listen  to  his 
pained  moan ; when  every  gust  of  wind  makes  your 
cheek  grow  pile ; when  you  turn  with  trembling  hand 
the  healing  drops , v^hen  every  tick  of  the  clock  seems 
heating  against  your  heart ; when  the  little,  pallid  face 
looks  beseechingly  into  yours,  for  the  “ help  ” you  cannot 
give ; O,  where  can  you  turn  the  suppliant  eye,  if  yov 
see  not  the  “ Great  Physician  ? ” 

When  health  slowly  returns ; when  the  eye  brightens 
‘ind  the  red  blood  colors  cheek  and  lip ; when  the  vaiam 


**  A I N F 1 I>  E 1 MOTHER.”  xUb 

:ihair  is  again  filled ; when  the  little  feet  are  again  busy  ; 
when  lovinpf  arms  in  playful  glee  twine  again  around 
your  neck ; — comes  there  from  that  mother’s  heart  of 
thine  no  burst  of  grateful  thanks  to  Him  who  notes  ever 
the  sparrow’s  fall  ? 


Suppose  death  come,  ’k  ou  fold  away  the  little,  use- 
less robes ; you  turn  with  a filling  eye  from  toys  and 
books,  and  paths  those  little  feet  have  trod ; you  feel 
ever  the  shadowy  clasp  of  a little  hand  in  yours ; you 
turn  heart-sick  from  happy  mothers,  who  number  no 
missing  iamb  from  their  flock.  A sunny  ringlet,  a rosy 
cheek,  or  a piping  voice,  gives  your  heart  a death-pano* 
You  walk  the  busy  street,  and  turn  your  head  volun- 
tarily when  a little,  strange  voice  calls  “ Mother  ! ” 0, 

where  can  you  go  for  comfort  then,  if  you  believe  not 
that  the  “ good  Shepherd  ” folds  your  lamb  to  his  loving 
breast  ? 


There  is  perfidy  at  your  household  hearth.  There  are 
broken  vows,  which  you  may  not  breathe  to  human  ear. 
There  is  treachery  repaid  for  trust ! Childhood  looks  on 
with  a sad  wonder ; you  must  “ go  backward  and  cast  the 
mantle  ” of  evasion  over  the  moral  deformity.  Whence 
shall  strength  come  to  your  slender  shoulders,  to  bear 
tills  heavy  cross  ? How  silence  the  ready  tempter’s 


i^)t)  "‘AN  INJFIl^EL  MOTHEK.” 

voice  ? Where  shall  all  those  warm  affections  now  be 
garnered  up,  if  not  in  heaven  ? 

0,  you  have  no  anchor,  no  rudder  or  compass  ! — your 
little  bark  is  adrift,  at  the  mercy  of  every  pitiless  gale 
— the  sea  is  dark  and  fearful,  the  billows  mountain  high 
the  sky  blaek  with  darkness,  if  you  turn  from  the  Great 
Pilot  ' 


LITTLE  CHARLIE,  THE  CHILD 
ANGEL. 


I AM  one  of  that  persecuted  class,  denominated  old 
maids.  By  going  quietly  about  the  world,  taking  care 
not  to  jostle  my  neighbors,  or  hit  against  any  of  their 
rough  angles,  I manage  to  be  cheerful,  contented  and 
happy.  In  my  multitudinous  migrations,  I have  had 
some  opportunity  to  study  human  nature.  Lately,  I 
have  become  a temporary  inmate  of  a crowded  boarding- 
house.  My  little  room  has  already  begun  to  look  home- 
like. The  cheerful  sun  has  expanded  the  fragrant  flowers 
I love  so  well  to  nurture ; my  canary  trills  his  satisfaction 
in  a gayer  song  than  ever ; and  my  pictures,  books,  and 
guitar,  drive  “ dull  care  away,”  and  beguile  many  a 
pleasant  hour.  And  now  my  heart  has  found  a new 
object  of  interest.  I Ve  noticed  on  the  staircase,  and  in 
the  hall  and  lobby,  a lovely  child,  who  seemed  wandering 
about  at  his  o\\n  sweet  will ; sometimes  sitting  wearily 
on  the  stairs,  almost  asleep ; then  loitering  at  the  kitchen 
door,  watching  the  operations  of  the  cook  ; then  peeping 
into  the  half-open  doors  of  the  difi'erent  apartments.  As, 
by  a rule  of  the  hou-se,  “ no  children  were  permitted  at 


£*98  LITTLE  CHARLI®, 

.fible,”  it  was  some  time  before  T could  a^ertain  who 
claimed  this  little  stray  waif. 

One  morning,  attracted  by  the  carol  of  my  canary,  he 
ventured  to  put  his  little,  curly  head  inside  my  door.  He 
needed  little  urging  to  enter,  for  he  read,  with  a child  s 
quick  instinct,  his  welcome  in  my  face.  An  animated 
conversation  soon  ensued  about  birds,  flowers  and  pic- 
tures,— his  large,  blue  eyes  growing  bright,  and  his  cheek 
flushing  with  pleasure,  as  story  followed  story,  while  he 
sat  upon  my  knee. 

At  length  I said  to  him,  “ Charlie,  won’t  mamma  be 
anxious  about  you,  if  you  stay  so  long  ? ” 

“ 0,  no,”  said  he,  “ Lizzie  don’t  care.” 

“ Who ’s  Lizzie  ? ” 

“ Why,  my  mamma  ! She  don’t  care,  if  T ’m  only  out 
of  the  way.  Lizzie  made  me  this  pretty  dress,”  said  he, 
holding  up  his  richly-embroidered  frock ; “ but  Lizzie 
don’t  know  any  stories,  and  she  says  I ’m  a bore.  What 
is  a ‘bore?’”  said  the  sweet  child,  as  he  looked  trustingly 
in  my  face. 

“ Never  mind,  now,”  said  I,  tearfully ; “ you  may 
stay  with  me  whenever  you  like,  and  we  will  be  very 
good  friends.” 

The  dinner-bell  sounding,  a gayly-dressea  young  thing 
vociferated,  in  a voice  anything  but  musical,  “ Charlie, 
Charlie  ! ” When  I apologized  for  keeping  him,  she 
«‘<id,  careJessly,  as  she  rearranged  her  bracelets,  “ 0, 


THE  CHILD-ANGEL 


199 


don’t  signify,  if  you  can  have  patience  with  him,  he ’s  so 
tiresome  with  his  questions.  I ’ve  bought  him  heaps  of 
toys,  but  he  never  wants  to  play,  and  is  forever  asking 
me  such  old-fashioned  questions.  Keep  him  and  wel- 
come, when  you  like ; but  take  my  word  for  it,  you  ’ll 
repent  your  bargain ! ” and  she  tripped  gayly  down  to 
dinner. 

Poor  little  Charlie ! Time  in  plenty  to  adjust  all 
those  silken  ringlets ; time  to  embroider  all  those  little 
gay  dresses;  time  to  linger  till  midnight  over  the  last 
new  novel ; but  for  the  soul  that  looked  forth  from  those 
deep  blue  eyes,  no  time  to  sow  the  good  seed,  no  time  to 
watch  lest  the  enemy  should  “ sow  tares.” 

From  that  time  Charlie  and  I were  inseparable.  The 
thoughtless  mother,  well  content  to  pass  her  time  devour- 
ing all  sorts  of  trashy  literature,  or  in  idle  gossip  with 
her  drawing-room  companions.  Ihe  young  father,  weary 
with  business  troubles,  contenting  himself  with  a quiet 
“ good-night,”  and  'closing  the  day  by  a visit  to  the 
theatre  or  concert-room.  Poor  Charlie,  meanwhile, 
put  to  bed  for  safe-keeping,  would  lie  hours,  toss- 
ing restlessly  from  side  to  side,  <‘with  nothing  in  his 
mind,”  as  he  innocently  said  to  me.  What  a joy  to  sit 
by  his  side  and  beguile  the  lonely  hours  ! There  I 
learned  to  understand  tne  meaning  of  our  Saviour’s 
words,  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heav^-^n.” 

In  his  clear,  silvery  tones,  he  would  repeat  after  me 


200 


LITTLE  CHARLIE, 


‘ Our  Father,”  asking  me  the  meaning  of  every  petition 
then  he  would  say,  “ Why  don’t  you  tell  Lizzie  ? Lizzie 
don’t  know  any  prayers  ! ” 

One  night  I sang  him  these  lines,  — 

“ Sweet  fields,  beyond  the  swelling  fiood. 

Stand  dressed  in  living  green  — 

he  raised  himself  in  bed,  while  the  tears  trembled  on  his 
long  lashes,  and  said,  “ O,  sing  that  again,  — it  seems  as 
if  I saw  a beautiful  picture  ! ” Then,  taking  my  guitar, 
I would  sit  by  his  bedside,  and  watch  the  blue  eyes  droop 
and  grow  heavy  with  slumber  as  I sang  to  him.  And 
she,  whose  duty,  and  joy,  and  pride,  it  should  have  been 
to  lead  those  little  feet  to  Him  who  biddeth  “ little  chil- 
dren come,”  was  indolently  and  contentedly  bound  in 
flowery  fetters  of  her  own  weaving,  unmindful  that  an 
angel’s  destiny  was  intrusted  to  her  careless  keeping. 


Little  Charlie  lay  tossing  in  his  little  bed,  with  a high 
fever.  It  is  needless  to  tell  of  the  hold  he  had  upon  my 
heart  and  services.  His  childish  mother,  either  unable 
or  unwilling  to  see  his  danger,  had  left  me  in  charge  of 
him,  — drawn  from  his  side  by  the  attraction  of  a great 
military  ball.  I changed  his  heated  pillows,  gave  him 
the  cooling  draught,  bathed  his  feverish  temples,  and 
finally,  at  his  request,  rocked  him  gently  to  quiet  hi» 


THE  OHILD-ANGEL. 


201 


restlessness.  He  placed  his  little  arms  caressingly  about 
my  neck,  and  said,  feebly,  “ Sing  to  me  of  heaven. 
When  I finished,  he  looked  languidly  up,  saying, 
‘Where’s  Lizzie?  — I must  kiss  Lizzie!”  and  as  the 
words  died  upon  his  lips,  his  eyes  drooped,  his  heart 
fiuttered  like  a prisoned  bird,  and  little  Charlie  was 
counted  one  in  the  heavenly  fold. 

As  I closed  his  eyes,  and  crossed  the  dimpled  hands 
peacefully  upon  his  little  breast,  his  last  words  rang  fear- 
fully in  my  ears,  — “ Where ’s  Lizzie  ^ ” 

I* 


THE  CROSS  AND  THE  CROWN. 


Are  there  no  martyrs  of  whom  the  wor'd  never  hears 
Are  there  no  victories  save  on  the  battle-field  ? Are 
there  no  triumphs  save  where  one  can  grasp  earth’s 
laurel  crown  ? See  you  none  who  rise  early  and  sit  up 
late,  and  turn  with  a calm,  proud  scorn  from  a gilded 
fetter  to  honest  toil  ? Pass  you  never,  in  your  daily 
walks,  slight  forms,  with  calm  brows,  and  mild  eyes^ 
whose  whole  life  has  been  one  prolonged  self-struggle  ? 
Lip,  cheek  and  brow  tell  you  no  tale  of  the  spirit’s 
unrest  ’ 

The  “ broad  road  ” is  passing  fair  to  look  upon.  The 
coiled  serpent  is  not  visible  ’mid  its  luxurious  foliage. 
The  soft  breeze  fans  the  cheek  wooingly,  laden  with  the 
music  of  happy,  careless  idlers.  Youth,  and  bloom,  and 
beauty,  — ay,  even  silver  hairs,  are  there  ! No  tempest 
lowers ; the  sky  is  clear  and  blue.  What  stays  yonder 
slender  foot  ? Why  pursue  so  courageously  the  thorny, 
rugged,  stumbling  path  ? The  eye  is  bright ; the  limbs 
are  round  and  graceful ; the  blood  flows  warm  and  free  ; 
the  shining  hair  folds  softly  away  from  a pure,  fair  brow 
there  are  sweet  voices  yonder  to  welcome  ; there  is  an 


THE  CROSS  AND  THE  CROWN. 


203 


inward  voice  to  hush ; there  are  thrilling  eyes  there,  to 
bewilder  ! What  stays  that  slender  foot  ? 

Ah ! the  foot-prints  of  Calvary’s  sufferer  arc  in  that 
“ narrow  path  ! ” That  youthful  head  bends  low  and 
unshrinkingly  to  meet  its  “ crown  of  thorns.”  The  “ star 
in  the  east  ” shines  far  above  those  rugged  heights,  on 
which  its  follower  reads,  — “To  him  that  overcometh, 
will  I give  to  eat  of  the  Tree  of  Life.” 

Dear  reader,  for  a brief  day  the  Cross  for  uncounted 
ages  the  Crown  ! 


LILLA,  THE  ORPHAN. 


It  was  a rough,  dark,  unsightly  looking  old  farm* 
house.  The  doors  were  off  the  hinges,  panes  of  glass 
were  broken  in  the  windows,  the  grass  had  overgrown 
the  little  gravel  path,  and  the  pigs  and  poultry  went  in 
and  out  the  door  as  if  they  were  human.  Farmer  Brady 
sat  sunning  his  bloated  face  on  the  door-step,  stupid  from 
the  effects  of  the  last  debauch ; his  ungainly,  idle  boys 
were  quarrelling  which  should  smoke  his  pipe,  and  two 
great  romps  of  girls,  with  uncombed  locks  and  tattered 
clothes,  were  swinging  on  the  gate  in  front  of  the  house. 

Everything  within  doors  was  in  keeping  with  the  dis- 
order that  reigned  without,  save  a young,  fair  girl,  who 
sat  at  the  low  window,  busily  sewing  on  a coarse  gar- 
ment. Her  features  were  regular  and  delicate,  her  hands 
and  feet,  small  and  beautifully  formed,  and,  despite  her 
rustic  attire,  one  could  see,  with  a glance,  that  she  was  a 
star  that  had  wandered  from  its  sphere. 

“ I say,  Lilia,”  said  one  of  the  hoydens,  bounding  into 
the  kitchen,  and  pulling  the  comb  out  of  Lilia’s  bead  as 
she  bent  over  her  work,  shedding  the  long,  brown  hair 
around  her  slight  figure,  till  her  white  shoulders  and 


IILLA,  THE  ORPHAN.  20o 

arms  were  completely  veiled ; “ I say,  make  haste  about 
that  gown.  Ma  said  you  should  finish  it  by  noon,  and 
you  don’t  sew  half  fast  enough.” 

Lilia’s  cheeks  flushed,  and  the  small  hands  wandered 
through  the  mass  of  hair  in  the  vain  attempt  to  confine  it 
again,  as  she  said,  meekly,  “Won’t  you  come  help  me, 
Betsey  ? My  head  aches  sadly,  to-day.”, 

“ No,  I won’t.  You  think,  because  you  are  a lady,  that 
you  can  live  here  on  us,  and  do  nothing  for  a living ; but 
you  won’t ; and  you  are  no  better  th^^i  Peggy  and  I,  with 
your  soft  voice,  and  long  hair,  and  doll  face.”  So  say- 
ing, the  romp  went  back  again  to  her  primitive  gymna- 
sium, the  gate. 

Lilia’s  tears  flowed  fast,  as  her  little  fingers  flew  more 
nimbly ; and  by  afternoon  her  task  was  completed,  and 
she  obtained  permission  from  her  jailers  to  take  a walk. 
It  was  a joy  to  Lilia  to  be  alone  with  nature.  It  was  a 
relief  to  free  herself  from  vulgar  sights  and  sounds ; to 
exchange  coarse  taunts,  and  rude  jests,  and  harsh  words, 
for  the  song  of  birds,  the  ripple  of  the  brook,  and  the 
soft  murmur  the  wind  as  it  sighed  through  the  tall 
^ree-tops. 

Poor  Lilia  ! — with  a soul  so  tuned  to  harmony,  to  be 
condemned  to  perpetual  discord ! Through  the  long, 
bright  summer  days,  to  drudge  at  her  ceaseless  toil,  at 
the  bidding  of  those  harsh  voices.  At  night,  to  creep 
inio  her  little  bed,  but  to  recaL  tearfully  a dim  vision  of 


206 


LIIiLA,  THE  ORPHAN. 


childhood ; — a gentle,  wasted  form ; a fair,  sweet  face 
growing  paler  day  by  day ; large,  lustrous,  loving  eyes 
that  still  followed  her  by '•day  and  night ; then,  a con- 
fused recollection  of  a burial,  — afterwards,  a dispute  as 
to  her  future  home,  ending  in  a long,  dismal  journey. 
Since  then,  scanty  meals,  the  harsh  blow,  coarse  clothing, 
taunting  words  and  bitter  servitude  ; and  then  she  would 
sob  herself  to  sleep,  a^s  she  asked,  “ Must  it  always  be 
thus  ? Is  there  none  to  care  for  me  ? ” 

The  golden  days  of  summer  faded  away ; the  leaves  put 
on  their  f ying  glory  ; the  soft  wind  of  the  Indian  summer 
lifted  gently  the  brown  tresses  from  Lilia’s  sweet  face. 
She  still  took  her  accustomed  walks,  but  it  was  not  alone 
A stranger  had  taken  up  his  residence  at  the  village  inn 
He  had  met  Lilia  in  her  rambles,  and  his  ready  inge 
nuity  soon  devised  a self-introduction.  He  satisfied 
himself  that  she  claimed  no  affinity  to  the  disorderly 
inmates  of  the  farm-house.  He  drew  from  her  her  little 
history,  and  knew  that  she  was  an  orphan,  unprotected 
in  her  own  sweet  innocence,  save  by  Him  who  guards 
us  all. 

And  so  the  dewy,  dim  twilight  witnessed  their  meet 
ings,  and  the  color  came  to  the  pale  cheek  of  Lilia,  and 
her  eyes  grew  wondrously  beautiful,  and  her  step  was  as 
light  as  her  heart,  and  harsh  household  words  fell  to  the 
ground  like  arrows  short  of  the  mark ; for  Lilia  was  hap- 
py. In  the  simplicity  of  her  guileless  heart,  how  should 


LILLA,  THE  ORPHAN. 


207 


she  know  that  Vincent  lived  only  for  the  present  ? That 
she  was  to  him  but  one  of  many  beautiful  visions,  admired 
to-day,  forgotten  to-morrow  ? It  was  such  a joy  to  be 
near  him,  to  feel  herself  appreciated,  to  know  that  she 
was  beloved ! 

And  so  time  passed  on  ; — but  their  meetings  had  not 
been  unnoticed.  Rough  threats  were  uttered  to  Lilia,  if 
they  were  continued,  for  she  had  made  herself  too  useful 
to  be  spared.  All  this  was  communicated  to  her  lover, 
as  they  met  again  at  the  old  trysting-place ; and  then, 
as  she  leaned  trustingly  on  his  arm,  Vincent  whispered 
in  her  ear  words  whose  full  import  she  understood  not. 
Slowly  the  truth  revealed  itself ! Her  slight  figure 
grew  erect,  as  she  withdrew  from  his  supporting  arm  ; 
— her  soft  eye  flashed  with  indignation,  and  the  man 
of  the  world  stood  abashed  in  the  presence  of  inno- 
cence ! A moment  — and  he  was  alone,  beneath  the 
holy  stars  ! 

That  night  Lilia  fled  her  home.  She  could  scarce 
be  more  desolate  or  unprotected.  The  next  day  found 
her,  foot-sore  and  weary,  in  the  heart  of  the  great  city, 
startled  and  trembling  like  the  timid  deer  fleeing  from 
its  pursuers. 

Lilia  knew  that  she  was  beautiful.  She  read  it  in  the 
lengthened  gaze  of  the  passers-by.  Friendless,  houseless 
and  beautiful  ! God  help  thee,  Lilia ! 


LILLA,  THE  ORPHAN. 

In  a dark,  unhealthy  garret  sat  Lilia  ■ Her  face, 
still  lovely,  was  pale  as  marble.  Her  fingers  flew  with 
lightning  rapidity  over  the  coarse  work  that  yielded 
her  only  a shelter.  But  there  were  angel  faces,  — 
unseen  by  her,  — smiling  approval ; and  she  could  clasp 
those  small  hands,  when  the  day’s  toil  was  over,  and 
say,  “ Our  Father,”  with  the  innocent  heart  of  child 
hood ; and  invisible  ones  had  charge  to  guard  her  foot- 
steps, and  “ He  who  feedeth  the  ravens  ” gave  hei 
“ daily  bread.” 

One  day  she  took  her  little  bundle,  as  usual,  to  the 
shop  of  her  employers ; and,  while  waiting  for  the  small 
pittance  due,  her  eye  fell  upon  an  advertisement  “ for 
a housekeeper,”  in  a newspaper  before  her.  But  how 
could  she  obtain  it,  without  recommendation,  without 
friends  ? She  resolved  to  try.  Her  little  hand  trembled 
nervously  as  she  pulled  the  bell  of  the  large,  handsome 
house.  She  was  preceded  by  the  servant  into  the  libra- 
ry, where  sat  a fine-looking  man,  in  the  prime  of  life. 
He  looked  admiringly  upon  the  shrinking,  modest  face 
and  form  before  him.  She  told  him,  in  a few  simple 
words,  her  history. 

The  eccentric  old  bachelor  paused  for  a moment,  then 
taking  her  hand,  he  said,  “ I advertised  for  a house- 
keeper, but  I ’m  more  in  need  of  a wife.  Will  you 
marry  me  ? ” 

And  so  Liila  became  a happy,  honored  wife.  And 


LILLA,  THE  ORPHAN. 

If*  a flush  passes  over  her  sweet  face  when  she  meets 
Vincent  in  the  circle  of  her  husband’s  acquaintances,  it 
is  from  no  lingering  feeling  of*  affection  for  the  treach- 
erous heart,  that  held  in  such  light  estimation  the  sacred 
name  of  Orphan. 

14 


OBSERVING  THE  b.’tBBATH. 


“And  ye  shall  call  the  Sabbath  a delight,  Holy  of  the  lord, 
aonorable.” 

“Don’t  accept  the  invitation  pent  you  to  that  Sunday 
excursion,  Harry.” 

• What  a solemn  phiz,  Fan  ! — why  not  ? The  better 
the  day  the  better  the  deed.” 

“ My  dear  ^oz,  if  the  fourth  commandment  has  no 
restraining  power,  then  avoid  it  for  its  vulgarity.  De- 
pend upon  it,  it  is  the  more  coarse  and  unrefined  portion 
of  the  community  who  outrage  the  feelings  of  church- 
going people  by  Sabbath  desecration.  Let  good  taste 
deter  you  from  it,  Harry,  if  I must  resort  to  so  weak 
an  argument,  when  so  many  better  ones  are  on  my 
side.” 

“ Well ; — but,  coz,  I have  already  given  my  word  that 
1 will  accept.” 

“Break  it,  then;  — you  owe  allegiance  to  a friend  who 
has  a prior  claim.” 

‘ Now,  Fan,  if  I would  do  it  for  anybody,  I would  dc 


OBSERVING  THE  SABBATH 


211 


it  for  you  ; but,  do  you  know,  I don’t  believe  in  Sunday 
and  in  going  to  meeting  ? ” 

“ Your  mother  did,  Harry.” 

“Yes  — I — know,”  said  he,  thoughtfully  ; “ and, 
strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  that  is  the  reason  I don’t. 
When  I was  a ‘ little  shaver,’  Sunday  was  the  gloomiest 
day  in  the  calendar,  to  me.  From  sunrise  to  sunset,  we 
were  scarcely  allowed  to  wink.  As  soon  as  we  were 
dressed,  we  were  seated  in  a row,  with  our  Bibles,  cate- 
chisms and  hymn-books.  Even  religious  newspapers  were 
prohibited ; and  we  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  danc- 
ing a hornpipe  on  the  pulpit  stairs,  as  stepping  over  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  except  to  church.  There  we  sat, 
repeating  hymns,  creeds  and  commandments,  till  the  bell 
summoned  us  to  a change  of  scene  ; and  he  was  a very 
bold  urchin  who  dared  stop  to  pluck  a tempting  daisy  oi 
buttercup  by  the  roadside.  Our  patriarchal  pastor  was 
fond  of  disentangling  knotty  theological  snarls,  and  div- 
ing beyond  his  depth,  in  the  doctrines  of  election  and 
total  depravity.  Our  childish  minds  refused  to  follow 
in  these  labyrinthine  mazes,  though  we  had  sundry  pulls 
3y  the  ears,  and  raps  on  the  knuckles,  by  way  of  remind- 
ers. Amid  all  this  ‘ strong  meat,’  the  ‘ milk  for  babes,’ 
ordered  by  the  infant-loving  Saviour,  was  quite  over- 
looked. 

“ Our  Sunday  dinner  was  looked  forward  to  as  a sort 
of  juvenile  ‘millennium  :’  though  our  inclination  to  pro- 


212 


OBSERVING  THE  SABBATH 


long  it  indefinitely  was  unceremoniously  cut  short  by 
^ending  us  back  to  our  little  chairs  and  big  catechisms. 
The  advent  of  a vagrant  fly,  or  profane  musquito,  was 
hailed  with  an  internal  thanksgiving,  as  affording  a con- 
venient respite  for  the  study  of  anatomy  and  natural  his- 
tory ; stray  leaves  of  ‘ Tom  Thumb,’  ‘ Mother  Goose,’ 
and  ‘ Sinbad  the  Sailor,’  occasionally  found  their  way 
between  the  pages  of  more  doctrinal  reading ; and  the 
soporific  tendency  of  a second  sermon  from  our  argu- 
mentative pastor,  bade  defiance  to  every  attempt  of  our 
vigilant  parents  to  keep  us  from  migrating  to  the  land 
of  Nod. 

“ With  what  anxiety  and  impatience  we  watched  for 
the  disappearance  of  ‘ Old  Sol  ’ behind  the  hills  ! What 
a welcome  release  for  overtasked  spirits,  what  stretch- 
ing of  wearied  limbs,  as  his  last  golden  beam  was  lost 
in  the  twilight  ! With  what  a feeling  of  complete  dis- 
enthral ment  we  threw  ourselves  on  the  grass,  beneath 
the  old  apple-tree,  or  explored  the  meadow  behind  the 
house,  or  drove  ‘ old  Brindle  ’ home  from  pasture ! And 
when  we  crept  into  our  little  beds  at  night,  what  sor- 
rowful discussions  we  held  upon  that  sentence  in  father’s 
prayer,  that  announced  ‘ Heaven  to  be  one  eternal  Sab 
bath  ! ’ O,  coz,  Sunday  was  made  a weariness  in  my 
boyhood  ! ” 

Very  true,  thought  I,  sorrowfully,  as  he  gayly  waved 
an  adieu.  The  cord  was  drawn  too  tightly,  and  this 


OBSERVING  THE  SABBATH. 


is  the  rebound ! And  yet  it  is  an  old-fashioned  error 
caution  points  with  her  finger  to  the  other  extreme,  at 
the  present  day.  Discretion  and  wisdom  mark  out  2 
middle  path. 


THE  tROPHET’S  CHAiViB^F. 


My  gr  I ifather’s  house  was»  to  all  intents  and  pur 
poses,  a ministerial  tavern ; — lacking  the  sign.  But 
though  “ entertainment  for  man  and  beast  ” was  not 
written  upon  the  door-posts,  yet  one  might  read  it,  in 
very  legible  characters,  in  the  faces  of  its  master  and 
mistress,  and  in  the  very  aspect  of  the  mansion  itself. 
At  least,  so  the  travelling  world,  especially  the  clerical 
part  of  it,  seemed  to  think ; for  almost  every  steamboat, 
stage  and  railroad  car  brought  them  a visitor.  They 
dropped  their  carpet-bags  in  the  hall  with  the  most  per- 
fect certainty  of  a welcome  ; and  if  the  inmates  were  out, 
the  fire  was  not,  and  the  boot-jack  and  slippers  of 
“ Brother  Clapp  ” were  in  the  same  old  place.  You 
should  have  seen  the  “ Prophet’s  Chamber,”  — that 
never,  within  my  recollection,  was  unoccupied  more^han 
time  enough  “ to  clear  it  up,”  — with  its  old-fashioned 
bedstead  and  hangings,  its  capacious  old  arm-chair,  its 
manifold  toilet  accommodations,  its  well-furnished  writ- 
ing-desk, its  large  fire-place  filled  up,  — not  with  a black 
gloomy,  funereal -looking  pillar  of  a stove,  with  an  isin- 
glass window  about  as  big  as  a ninepence,  mocking  the 


THE  PROPHET  S CHAMBER. 


210 


cnilled  traveller  with  its  muffled  blaze,  — but  great,  stal- 
wart logs  of  wood,  laid  over  the  large,  old-fashioned 
andirons,  that  stood  guard,  lik»  two  brazen  sentinels,  over 
the  bright  flame  that  flickered  and  flashed,  and  leaped 
forth  exultingly,  lighting  up  the  faces  of  the  saints  and 
martyrs  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  from  the  time  of  John 
Rogers  down  to  the  last  poor  missionary  that  was  ate  up 
by  the  savages  in  our  own  day.  There  was  a very  ortho- 
dox atmosphere  in  that  room,  you  may  be  sure  ; and 
when  my  grandmother  used  to  send  me  up,  — then  a 
little  girl,  — with  some  dainty  morsel,  prepared  by  her 
own  skilful  hands  for  the  “ good  minister,”  I used  to  stop 
at  the  door  till  I imagined  my  little,  round  face  was 
drawn  down  to  the  proper  length,  before  I dared  show  it 
on  the  other  side.  How  glad  I was  when  that  dyspeptic 
Mr.  Ney’s  visit  was  at  an  end,  with  his  “ protracted  ” 
walkings  up  and  down,  and  across  the  floor,  and  his  sighs 
and  groans,  and  ‘‘  0 dear  me’s!  ” and  how  grandmother 
used  to  shake  her  head  at  me,  and  pity  him,  with  his  “ big 
family,  and  large  parish,  and  small  salary.”  And  when 
he  went  home,  how  full  she  used  to  stufi*  that  old  carpet- 
bag of  his,  which  I used  to  think  must  have  been  made 
of  India  rubber,  for  it  always  held  just  as  much  as  she 
had  to  put  in  it,  more  or  less ; and  how  I used  to  wonder 
if  my  heart  was  as  “ awful  hard,  and  dreadful  wicked,” 
as  he  used  to  tell  me ! Poor  Mr.  Ney ! I understand  it 
better  now  ; it  was  disease,  not  religion,  that  made  him  sc 


21G 


THE  PEOPHET’S  CHAMBER. 


gloomy.  His  sky  was  always  lead  color;  no  fluvrera 
bloomed  under  his  feet ; his  ears  heard  nothing  but  “ the 
thunder  and  lightning his  eyes  saw  only  the  “ thick 
cloud  upon  the  mount.’’ 

But  what  a sunshine  brightened  the  Prophet’s  Cham- 
ber  when  dear  Mr.  Temple  came  to  stay  with  us ! I 
used  to  think  our  Saviour  must  have  such  a smile  when 
he  said,  ‘‘  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  me.’’ 
How  low  and  musical  was  his  voice  ! How  gently  he  would 
lay  his  dear  hand  upon  my  head,  when  I stooped  to  put 
on  his  slippers,  and  say,  ‘ Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it 
unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me/ 
— God  bless  you,  my  daughter ! ” And  when  the  excite- 
ment of  preaching  brought  one  of  those  cruel  attacks  of 
nervous  headache,  what  a pleasure  it  was,  when  I stood 
up  on  the  little  cricket  behind  his  chair,  to  pass  my  little 
hand  slowly  across  his  broad,  pale  forehead,  till  the  long 
silken  lashes  drooped  heavily  upon  his  cheek,  and  he  sank 
into  a soothing  slumber ! How  softly  I would  tiptoe  back 
to  my  little  seat  by  the  fire-place,  to  watch  for  his  wak 
ing,  to  gaze  upon  his  sweet,  quiet  face,  and  vV^onder  if  he 
would  n’t  look  like  that  in  heaven  ! And,  then,  proud  and 
happy  I was,  when  he  awoke  refreshed,  to  be  beckoned  to 
my  old  place  on  his  knee,  and  to  hear  the  pretty  story  of 
the  “ Little  Syrian  Maid,”  or  “ Abraham  and  Isaac,”  oi 
the  “Resurrection  of  Lazarus,”  — possessing  some  new 
^harp*  ^r  me  every  time  he  related  them  ! And  how 


THE  PltOPHBT’S  CHAMBER 


21 


soft  and  liquid  his  large,  dark  eyes  grew,  and  how  trem 
ulous  his  low  voice,  as  he  told  me  of  “ the  Crucifixion ! ” 
And  how  I used  to  think  if  I could  always  live  with  dear 
Mr.  Temple  I should  never  be  a naughty  little  girl  again 
in  my  life  — never  I never ! 

And  years  afterwards,  when  I had  grown  a tall  girl, 
and  he  chanced  to  come  to  preach  in  the  place  where  I 
was  sent  to  a boarding-school,  he  selected  me  from  a him* 
dred  romping  girls,  and,  laying  his  dear  hand  again  on 
my  head,  said  to  my  teacher,  “ This  is  one  of  my  lambs  ’ 
Was  n’t  that  a proud  and  happy  day  for  me  ? 

But  to  return  to  my  grandfather’s.  You  should  have 
been  there  Anniversary  Week ! ” “ Such  a many 

ministers . ” as  little  Charley  used  to  say.  How  all  of  us 
children  gave  up  our  little  bed-rooms,  and  huddled,  pro- 
miscuously, in  one  room ! What  nice  things  grandmother 
was  getting  ready,  weeks  and  weeks  beforehand  ! What 
appetites  they  did  have,  and  how  bright  grandmother’s 
face  shone,  the  more  they  ate  and  drank,  and  the  more 
they  made  themselves  at  home  ! And  how  pleasant  it  was 
to  sit  in  the  corner  with  my  bit  of  gingerbread,  and  hear 
them  talk ! And  how  I used  to  wonder  if  they  really 
were  all  “ brothers  ” — as  they  called  each  other  when 
they  spoke ; — and  what  they  all  meant  by  calling  my 
grandmother  “ Sister  Clapp.”  Well-a-day! — years  have 
flown  by,  since  then.  Dear  grandmother  and  kind  Mr. 
Temple  sleep  quietly  in  the  church-yard.  Sacrilegious 
J 


*J18  THE  prophet's  CHAMBER. 

feet  have  trod  the  “ Prophet’s  Chamber.”  Poor,  gloomy 
Mr.  Ney  is  walking  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  a new  song 
is  put  in  his  mouth,  — the  song  of  Canaan.  “ Anniver- 
sary week  ” is  not  now  what  it  used  to  be  then.  People’s 
hearts  and  houses  have  contracted ; and,  growing  “ forget- 
ful to  entertain  strangers,”  they  miss  the  presence  of  the 
' angel  that  cometh  unawares.” 

m Iff  w m ^ 


LILIES  OF  THE  VALLEY. 


To  ihe  unkruywn  friend  who  sent  me  a bouquet  of  ‘ lilies 
of  the  valley  ” ; — 

You  dream  not , as  the  soft  wind  stirs  those  little  bells 
on  their  delicate  stems,  that  my  heart  is  filled  with  a sad 
pleasure.  Each  one  has  a voice  for  my  heart ; in  each 
cup  there  is  a history. 

They  bring  before  me  a little  form,  fragile  and  sweet 
as  themselves.  I hear  again  the  soft  fall  of  little  tripping 
feet.  Large,  brown,  spiritual  eyes  gaze  upward  into 
mine.  A cloud  of  shining  hair  shades  a brow  too  holy  for 
earth.  Again,  as  in  the  olden  time,  I wander  with  the 
clasp  of  a little  hand  in  cool,  mossy  paths ; for  that  fair 
young  head  I bind  wreaths  of  these  sweet  lilies.  Silently 
[ watch  with  her  for  the  stealing  forth  of  evening’s  first 
star.  The  gray  dawn,  the  sultry  noon,  the  solemn  mid- 
night, find  us  side  by  side.  I tremble  when  I look  into 
those  deep  eyes.  As  childhood’s  years  pass  on,  no  taint 
of  earth  comes  over  that  pure  heart.  The  passer  by 
gazes,  and  turns,  and  looks  again,  and  marvels  whence 
comes  the  spell  which  chains  his  eye  to  that  little  &ce. 


220 


LILIES  OF  THE  VALLEY. 


orraj-haired  wisdom  smiles  sadly,  and  says  the  dew-drop 
will  exhale. 

^ ^ ^ 4^  AL, 

w w w 'Tr  W W 

When  the  careless  feet  which  lightly  tread  the  sacred 
paths  of  Mount  Auburn,  have  left  its  quiet  sleepers  to  the 
hush  of  evening,  then  go  with  me ; and  we  will  sit  down 
together,  on  that  mossy  seat  under  the  hawthorn ; and,  with 
only  the  holy  stars  for  listeners,  I will  tell  you  how  gently 
that  little  hand  pushed  aside  the  cun  of  life  ; — of  that 
long,  last,  earnest  look  which  was  bent  on  me,  when  the 
tongue  was  powerless  to  speak  its  love ; — of  the  gradual 
flickering  and  fading  out  of  life’s  little  taper.  Then  you 
shall  retrace  with  me  a rough  and  thorny  path  of  trial 
which  those  little  feet  were  spared  from  treading ; and  we 
will  kneel  beside  that  marble  cross,  and  say,  from  ful^ 
hearts.  ‘‘  It  well  with  the  child ! ” 


GRANDFATHER  GLEN. 


The  driving  snow  and  hail  beat  mercilessly  against  the 
windows ; the  piercing  north  wind  seemed  to  search  the 
very  bones.  Shivering  pedestrians  were  seen  hurrying 
through  the  streets,  tightly  grasping  their  umbrellas 
rendered  almost  useless  by  the  fury  of  the  storm.  Ro- 
bust men  turned  their  collars  about  their  ears,  and 
snapped  their  frost-bitten  fingers,  and  stamped  their  feet 
to  promote  circulation ; dainty  dames,  muffled  to  the 
chin  in  costly  furs,  were  to  be  seen  through  the  closed 
window  of  carriages. 

It  was  a day  to  bless  God  for  warmth,  and  food, 
and  think  shudderingly  of  the  houseless  poor.  It  was 
Thanksgiving  day,  — known  throughout  New  England  as 
a day  of  unlimited  feasting  and  rejoicing,  warm  heart- 
greetings  and  glad  memories.  At  the  windows  of  ele- 
gant mansions,  where  rarest  flowers  blossomed,  and  birds 
warbled,  as  if  in  midsummer,  where  heavy  silken  cur- 
tains, and  warm  fires,  bade  defiance  to  the  chill  blast, 
were  seen  happy  faces  and  graceful  forms,  clad  in  tints 
rivalling  autumn’s  gayest  livery. 

In  such  a mansion  as  this,  around  a daintily  spread 


222 


GRANDFATHER  GLEN 


table,  were  seated  Mr,  Glen’s  wife  and  family,  ^ — childrea 
and  children’s  children.  The  little,  high  chair,  in  which, 
regularly,  sat  a new  baby  every  year,  had  been  duly 
placed  at  the  table,  and  its  little,  curly-headed  occupant, 
in  scarlet  dress  and  white  apron,  looked  the  picture 
of  childish  happiness.  Sons  and  daughters,  in  manly 
beauty  and  womanly  grace,  made  the  scene  fair  to  look 
upon. 

A servant  entered,  with  a note  for  Mr.  Glen.  As  he 
read,  the  ce  mounted  to  his  temples,  but,  shaking  his 
hand  angrily,  and  saying,  “There  is  no  answer,”  he 
addressed  himself  again  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  It 
was  from  his  truant  daughter,  Ellen,  who,  years  before, 
had  clandestinely  given  her  heart  and  hand  to  a youthful 
lover.  Mr.  Glen  had  said  “he  would  never  see  her 
more.”  All  his  household  were  forbidden  to  see  or 
speak  to  her. 

“ Think  of  her  as  one  dead,”  said  he,  “ and  never  let 
her  name  be  mentioned  in  my  presence.” 

Everything  that  could  remind  him  of  her  he  caused  to 
be  removed  from  his  sight.  The  key  was  turned  upon 
the  room  she  occupied ; there  lay  her  guitar,  with  the 
blue  ribbon,  that  had  so  often  rested  on  her  fair  neck 
there  were  her  work-box,  drawing  materials,  a faded 
bunch  of  flowers,  dainty  little  slippers,  fairy  robes,  and 
the  mirror  which  had  so  often  reflected  back  the  form  tha+ 
had  lent  «uch  a grace  to  them  all. 


OK  AND  FATHER  G L E N . 

Her  father  had  said  she  was  “ dead  to  him,”  and  he 
tried  to  think  so  ; and  yet,  he  would  start  nervously  at  a 
household  tone,  or  a remembered  strain  of  music,  or  a 
soft  footfall ; and  ever,  in  his  dreams,  a sweet,  pale  face 
looked  tearfully  out  from  amid  its  golden  tresses,  and  a 
soft  voice  plead  musically  for  pardon  ; but  the  morrow’s 
sun  found  him  colder,  sterner,  more  unyielding  than  ever. 

In  vain  the  faithful  wife  of  his  youth,  around  whose 
brow  silver  threads  were  twining,  plead  with  a mother’s 
love  for  her  child.  In  vain  did  the  moistened  eyes  of 
brother  and  sister  add  their  silent  eloquence. 

.Ind  there  he  sat,  at  his  Thanksgiving  board ; — he  had 
just  refused  her  last  request.  For  him  the  viands  had 
now  lost  their  flavor.  He  could  only  see  before  him 
shivering  forms  and  haggard  faces. 


In  an  upper  chamber,  in  a shattered,  rickety  building; 
lay  a man  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption.  At  his  bed- 
side sat  a sweet,  pale  creature,  upon  whose  face  sorrow, 
more  than  time,  had  left  its  traces.  At  her  knee  stood 
a noble  boy,  of  six  years,  striving  with  his  tiny  hand  to 
wipe  away  the  tears  that  were  falling  thick  and  fast 
among  his  clustering  locks.  Through  the  broken  panes 
of  glass  the  snow  was  forcing  its  way ; the  little  handful 
of  fire  on  the  hearth  was  fast  dying  out,  and  the  sick 
man’s  hollow  cough  echoed  fearfully  through  the  desolate 


224 


GRANDFATHER  GLEN. 


chamber,  as  he  shiveringly  drew  around  his  emaciated 
limbs  the  scanty  bed-clothing. 

“ Don’t  cry,  Ellen,”  said  he  ; “ when  I am  P^one,  your 
father  will  relent” 

“ No,  no,”  sobbed  his  wife,  as  she  laid  her  pale  cheek 
to  his  ; “ no,  no  ! it  must  be  that  he  will  pity  us  now.” 

As  she  spoke,  her  father’s  reftisal  was  handed  to 

her. 

“ I told  you  so,”  said  the  sick  man,  groaning,  as  he 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

Ellen  stood  still  a moment ; then  calling  her  boy  to  her 
side,  while  her  face  grew  ashy  pale,  she  parted  the  rich 
curls  from  his  forehead,  and  wrapping  about  him  her  own 
tattered  mantle,  she  sent  him  forth,  in  the  storm,  like 
Noah’s  dove  from  the  ark. 

Mr.  Grien  sat  at  his  table,  nervously  twisting  his  nap- 
kin between  his  fingers,  absorbed  in  thought.  The  storm, 
that  raged  so  fearfully  without,  was  emblematical  of  the 
conflicting  feelings  in  his  breast.  He  turned  his  head 
towards  the  opening  door,  and  before  him  stood  a little 
creature,  in  whose  curly  locks  the  drifting  snow  still 
lingered,  his  cheeks  reddened  with  intense  cold,  and  his 
little  toes  and  fingers  peeping  out,  blue  and  benumbed, 
from  their  scanty  covering. 

“Where’s  my  Grandfaver  Glen?”  said  the  child,  as 
he  looked  innocently  and  fearlessly  round  upon  the 
group. 


QKANDFATHER  GLEN. 


Mr.  Glen  gazed  at  him,  as  if  spell-bound.  There  were 
Ellen’s  ringlets ; those  clear,  blue  eyes  and  silvery  tones 
were  hers. 

The  child  advanced  and  laid  his  little,  benumbed  hand 
upon  his  grandfather’s  knee.  Nature  could  no  longer 
dissemble.  The  old  man  pressed  him  to  his  breast,  laid 
his  silver  locks  upon  his  sunny  head,  chafed  his  shivering 
limbs,  and  offered  him  food. 

“No  — no,”  said  the  child,  refusing  to  eat,  “I  want 
some  for  poor  mamma,  she ’s  so  hungry,  and  papa  is 
dying,  and  — ” 

The  little  creature,  o . •reoi’^e  with  excitement,  sobbed 
as  if  his  heart  were  break: 

A few  moments  found  Mv  GVn  and  his  wife,  with 
Charley  for  a guide,  on  the  way  to  their  suffering  chil- 
dren. A servant  accompanied  them,  carrying  wine  and 
refreshments.  They  threaded  the  dark  alley,  climbed 
the  rickety  stairway,  preceded  by  Charley,  whose  eyes 
sparkled  with  delight.  Throwing  wide  open  the  door  of 
the  miserable  room,  he  said, 

“Wake  up,  mamma;  wake  up,  dear  papa;  — here’s 
something  to  make  you  well.” 

“ Moreifiii  God  ! ” said  Mr.  Glen,  “ we  are  too  late,”  as 
his  eye  rested  on  the  lifeless  forms  of  his  daughter  and 
her  husband. 

In  vain  he  listened  to  hear  them  breathe ; trouble, 
sorrow,  cold  and  fimine  had  too  surely  done  their  work, 

i* 


15 


226 


GRANDFATHER  OLEN. 


W ith  bitter  tears  they  laid  together  in  the  tomb  those 
who,  even  in  death,  could  not  be  divided. 


The  April  tears  of  childhood  are  soon  dried,  and  little 
Charley  is  now  the  sunbeam  in  the  house  of  “ Grandfaver 
Glen.” 


THE  WICOW^S  PRAYER. 


Something  to  moisten  mj  lips,”  said  tlie  restless 
sufferer,  as  he  turned  his  head  languidly  towards  his 
widowed  mother.  The  cool,  refreshing  draught  was 
nanded  him,  and  a soft  hand  was  laid  on  his  throbbing 
temples,  and  the  anxious  mother  turned  away  her  head, 
that  the  quivering  lip  and  falling  tear  might  not  distress 
her  boy.  He  was  her  only  child  * and,  through  a tedious 
and  sickly  infancy,  she  had  patiently  endured  wearisome 
days  and  wakeful  nights,  until  at  last  he  stood  before  her 
with  cheeks  mantling  with  the  hue  of  health,  and  limbs 
strong  and  graceful  in  youthful  beauty.  No  music  was 
so  sweet  to  her  as  his  ringing  laugh ; and,  when  he 
slept,  she  would  creep  to  his  bedside,  as  the  bright  eyes 
lay  veiled  under  their  long,  sweeping  lashes,  and  the 
thick  curls  were  carelessly  tossed  from  his  white  temples; 
and  happy  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  as  the  lost  husband 
of  her  youth  was  again  restored  to  her  in  the  person  of 
her  sleeping  boy.  And  she  would  picture  a long,  happy 
future,  a quiet  old  age ; and  for  him,  honor  and  renown, 
and  fame  ; and  his  children  should  climb  her  knee.  But 
now  — there  he  laid  ! “ there  was  but  a step  between  him 


THE  widow’s  prayer. 

and  death the  bright  eye  faded,  the  features  sharpened 
by  disease,  the  round  limbs  wasted  and  shrunken. 

And  then  to  that  house  of  mourning  came  the  holy  man 
of  God.  On  his  bended  knee,  at  the  bedside  of  the  dying 
boy,  fervently  he  prayed  that  “if  it  be  God’s  will  the  life 
so  dear  might  be  spared.”  “If  it  be  God’s  will?  — it 
must  be  God’s  will,”  said  the  insubmissive  mother,  as  she 
rose  sobbing  from  her  knees.  And  “ the  Highest  ” heard 
her  prayer  ! 

The  sun  shone  brightly  and  cheerfully  into  the  sick 
room.  The  hue  of  health  took  the  place  of  pallor  on  the 
face  of  the  invalid ; the  locks,  that  were  damp  with  the 
dew  of  agony,  grew  crisp  and  glossy ; the  bright  eye 
sparkled  ; the  old  familiar  smile  played  upon  the  red 
lips ; the  dainty  morsels,  prepared  by  the  hand  of  the 
happy  mother,  were  partaken  of  with  the  keen  relish  of 
returning  health.  He  was  rescued  ! — he  was  saved  ! 
The  gift  was  accepted,  but  the  Giver  was  forgotten,  and 
the  Great  Physician  went  unthanked.  And  so  the  boy 
grew  up  to  manhood ; — and  his  slightest  word  was  law, 
and  the  glance  of  his  eye  was  a command,  to  the  mother 
who  bore  him  ; and  she,  who  should  have  received  obedi 
ence,  rendered  it ; and  to  her  own  child  she  was  a willing 
slave ! 

The  governor  of sat  in  his  drawing-room,  sur- 

i junded  by  a pleasant  party  of  friends.  A woman 


THE  widow’s  prayer. 


229 


begged  an  immediate  audience.  She  was  old  and  fee- 
ble, and  travel-stained ; her  gray  locks  floated  unchecked 
over  her  furrowed  temples.  Panting,  exhausted,  she 
could  only  stammer  forth,  For  God’s  sake,  a pardon 
for  my  only  son,  condemned  to  die ! ” The  man  releated, 
but  the  judge  was  inexorable!  “Justice  must  have  its 
due.”  Large  drops  of  agony  started  from  those  furrowed 
temples.  Clasping  nis  knee,  she  cried,  “ A reprieve, 
then  ! — have  mercy  ! — a reprieve  ! ” It  was  a vain 
prayer ; for  ere  the  morning  sun  should  rise,  the  head 
that  had  slumbered  so  often  on  her  breast  would  be  laid 
by  rough  hands  in  a dishonored  grave ; and  then,  too  late, 
she  knew,  that  not  in  mercy,  but  in  wrath,  that  impious 
prayer  had  been  answered,  — “ It  must  be  God’s  will  * ” 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


Mother,  I want  to  slide  on  the  ice  ? ” 

“No,  my  dear;  the  air  is  sharp  and  cold,  and  your 
cough  was  very  bad  last  night  and  Mrs.  Lansing 
passed  her  hand  affectionately  over  the  silken  hair  of 
the  little  Minnie,  as  if  to  conciliate  her. 

The  child  shrugged  her  little,  fat  shoulders,  and  with- 
drew, pouting,  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  saying,  “ I 
wish  my  own  mamma  was  out  of  the  ground ; she ’d  let 
me  go.  I don’t  love  you  ! ” 

Tears  sprang  to  the  eyes  of  the  gentle  step»mother,  but 
she  wavered  not  in  what  she  believed  to  be  her  duty 
Soon  after  she  left  the  room,  and  returned  with  some 
pretty  paper  dolls,  calling  to  Minnie  to  come  and  help 
dress  them ; but  the  child’s  wayward  temper  was  not  to 
be  so  conciliated.  Another  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a 
portentous  frown  were  the  only  answer. 

Mrs.  Lansing  did  not  enter  upon  the  marriage  relation 
unapprized  of  the  trials  to  which  a “ step-mother  ” is 
always  exposed.  She  shrank  timidly  from  the  responsi- 
bility involved  in  the  charge  of  Minnie,  and  fully  ex- 
pressed those  feelings  to  her  father ; but  Mr.  Lansing 


THE  STEP-MOTHER 


*28] 


repeatevlly  assured  her  that  “ he  had  seen  no  one,  since 
his  wife’s  death,  to  whom  he  would  so  readily  intrust  the 
care  of  his  child and  her  sensitive  fears  were  quieted. 
From  her  infancy,  Minnie  had  been  accustomed  to  rule. 
With  the  want  of  energy  attendant  upon  feeble  health, 
her  mother  had  yielded  to  her  imperious  temper,  rather 
than  provoke  a struggle ; and  Mr.  Lansing,  being  neces- 
sarily absent  on  business,  Minnie  was  left  to  the  injudi 
cious  chance-training  of  nurses  and  hirelings.  After  his 
wife’s  death,  the  widowed  father’s  heart  was  more  closely 
knit  in  love  to  his  child ; and,  with  mistaken  kindness,  he 
overlooked  her  little,  peri^  erse  fits  of  temper,  and  humored 
her  waywardness.  Minnie,  who  was  quick  of  perception, 
and  wise  beyond  her  years,  soon  found  out  that  the  staif 
was  in  her  own  hands  ; and  the  injurious  phrase,  repeated 
unthinkingly  in  her  hearing,  about  “ cruel  step-mothers,” 
but  ill  prepared  her  to  submit  to  Mrs.  Lansing’s  gentle 
sway.  With  the  promptings  of  a naturally  kind  heart, 
quickened  by  a sense  of  duty,  and  a desire  to  win  this 
child  of  her  heart’s  adoption,  she  endeavored  by  every 
ingenious  device  to  conciliate  her;  but  her  efforts  hitherto 
had  been  unavailing,  or  short-lived.  On  Mr.  Lansing’s 
return  at  night,  Minnie  would  climb  his  knee,  and,  placing 
her  little  mouth  close  to  his  ear,  — witli  a defying  glance 
at  Mrs.  Lansing,  — repeat  her  little,  distorted  story  of 
complaint,  unrebuked,  and  receive  from  the  inexhaustible 
poeJcet  a package  of  hmi-bons,  or  a new  toy,  by  way  of 


232 


THE  STEP-MOTHEK 


sedatives,  which  she,  of  course,  contrasted,  in  her  wise 
little  head,  most  unfavorably  with  the  gentle  firmness 
with  which  Mrs.  Lansing  strove  to  govern  her.  All  this 
told  most  disastrously  upon  the  disposition  of  the  child, 
and  undermined  every  attempt  at  reformation.  Added 
to  this  — although  it  might  be  passed  unnoticed  by  a cas- 
ual observer  — the  sensitive  spirit  of  Mrs.  Lansing  was 
wounded  on  those  occasions,  by  perceiving  the  slightly 
clouded  brow  of  her  husband.  The  smile,  so  dearly 
prized,  so  jealously  watched  for,  was  a shade  less  beam- 
ing, — the  tone  of  the  loved  voice  less  cordial  and  heart- 
cheering  ; and  she  soon  found  that  to  retain  his  love  she 
must  sacrifice  her  duty  to  his  child  ! Curious  eyes,  too, 
watched  for  her  halting.  Inquisitive  neighbors  tortured 
every  accidental  circumstance  to  extract  food  for  theii; 
own  suspicions,  or  skilfiilly  catechized  the  child,  by  ques- 
tions suggestive  of  an  answer  to  their  liking.  There  was 
no  human  ear  into  which  the  loving  wife  could  pour  her 
sorrow. 

One  evening,  before  retiring  to  rest,  she  entered  the 
room  where  Minnie  lay  sleeping.  The  dimpled  arms 
were  tossed,  with  the  careless  grace  of  childhood,  over  the 
little  curly  head ; the  pearly  teeth  were  peeping  from 
beneath  the  coral  lips,  and  in  broken  murmurs  the  child 
repeated  the  name  of  “ Mother.’’  Mrs.  Lansing  knelt 
by  the  bedside,  and  her  tears  flowed  freely.  She  asked 
herself,  had  no  jealous  feeling  of  rivalry  in  the  father’s 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


23b 


love  clouded  her  sense  of  justice  toward  the  wilful  little 
sleeper  ? With  the  angel  eye  of  her  whom  she  believed 
to  be  still  hovering  over  the  child,  bent  full  upon  her, 
she  weighed  every  motive,  and  questioned  every  passing 
feeling ; and  conscience  acquitted  her  of  being  actuated 
by  any  other  motive  than  that  of  a desire  to  perform 
faithfully  her  duty.  And  now,  should  she  waver  ? The 
thought  of  risking  the  father’s  love  was  torture  to  her. 
Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  prayed,  — ‘‘If  it 
be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me.” 

There  had  been  an  unnoticed  listener  to  this  spirit-con- 
flict ; and  when  she  rose  from  her  knees,  she  was  folded 
to  a heart  that  manfully  sustained  her  in  every  future 
struggle ; and  Minnie  joined  him,  in  aftei  years,  in  thank- 
ing God  for  the  gift  of  a Christian  step -mother. 


A WORD  TO  MOTHERS. 


Dear  mother,”  said  a delicate  little  girl,  “ I have 
broken  your  China  vase  ! ” 

“Well,  you  are  a naughty,  careless,  troublesome  little 
thing,  always  in  some  mischief.  Go  up  stairs  and  stay  in 
the  closet  till  I send  for  you  ! ’ ’ 

And  this  was  a Christian  mother’s  answer  to  the  tear- 
ful little  culprit,  who  had  struggled  with,  and  conquered, 
the  temptation  to  tell  a falsehood  to  screen  her  fault 
With  a disappointed,  disheartened  look,  the  child  obeyea , 
and,  at  that  moment,  was  crushed  in  her  little  heart  the 
sweet  flower  of  truth,  perhaps  never  again  in  after  years 
to  be  revived  to  life.  O,  what  were  the  loss  of  a thou- 
sand “ vases,”  in  comparison  ! 

’T  is  true,  an  angel  might  shrink  from  the  responsibili- 
tie'5  of  a mother.  It  needs  an  angel’s  powers.  The 
watch  must  never,  for  an  instant,  be  let  up  ; the  scales 
of  justice  must  always  be  nicely  balanced ; the  hasty 
word,  that  the  overtasked  spirit  sends  to  the  lip,  must  die 
there  ere  it  is  uttered.  The  timid  and  sensitive  child 
must  have  a word  of  encouragement  in  season ; the  for 
ward  and  presuming,  checked  with  gentle  firmness ; there 


A WORD  TO  MOTHERS. 


235 


must  be  no  deception,  no  evasion,  no  trickery,  for  the 
keen  eye  of  childhood  to  mark.  And  all  this,  when  the 
exhausted  frame  sinks  with  ceaseless  vigils,  perhaps,  and 
the  thousand  petty  interruptions  and  unlooked-for  annoy- 
ances of  every  hour,  almost  set  at  defiance  any  attempt  at 
system.  Still  must  that  mother  wear  an  unruffled  brow, 
lest  the  smiling  cherub  on  her  knee  catch  tJie  angry 
frown.  Still  must  she  ‘‘rule  her  own  spirit,”  lest  the  boy, 
so  apparently  engrossed  with  his  toys,  repeat  the  nex : 
moment  the  impatient  word  his  ear  has  caught.  For  all 
these  duties,  faithfully  and  conscientiously  performed,  a 
mother’s  reward  is  in  secret  and  in  silence.  Fiven  he, 
on  whose  earthly  breast  she  leans,  is  too  often  unmindful 
of  the  noiseless  struggle,  until,  too  late,  alas ! he  learns  to 
value  the  delicate  hand  that  has  kept  in  unceasing  flow 
the  thousand  springs  of  his  domestic  happiness  ! 

But  what  if,  in  the  task  that  devolves  upon  the  mother, 
she  utterly  fail  ? What  if  she  consider  her  duty  per- 
formed when  her  child  is  fed,  and  warm,  and  clothed  ? 
What  if  the  priceless  soul  be  left  to  the  chance-training 
of  hirelings  ? What  if  she  never  teach  those  little  lips 
to  lisp  “Our  Father”?  What  if  she  launch  her  child 
upon  life’s  stormy  sea  without  rudder,  or  compass,  or 
chart  ? God  forbid  that  there  should  be  many  such 
mothers  ! 


THE  TEST  OF  LOVE. 


“ For  charity’s  sake,  take  me  in ! ” said  the  livoiy  littU 
Mrs.  Orey,  with  a look  of  mock-distress,  as  she  peeped 
her  bright  face  into  my  room.  “ If  you  ’ll  credit  it,  my 
husband  has  n’t  spoken  five  consecutive  words  since  tea- 
time;  and  I’m  quite  undecided  whether  to  request  to 
have  the  roof  raised,  so  that  I can  breathe  freer,  or  to  go 
into  a violent  fit  of  hysterics.  Matty,”  said  she,  with  a 
ludicrously  solemn  air,  “ I should  n’t  be  surprised  if  I 
had  married  the  wrong  man ! Now,  Edward  is  one  of 
the  best  creatures  in  the  world  ; — there,  that ’s  just  it,” 
said  she,  jumping  up,  “ he ’s  too  good.  I can’t  think  of  a 
fault  he  has ; he ’s  awfully  correct,  • — a living  reproof  to 
me.  Do  compassionate  me,  Matty ; I have  what  the  old 
ladies  call  ‘ a model  husband.’  Now,  is  n’t  it  a pity  that 
goodness  and  stupidity  generally  go  together  ? ” said  she, 
laughing.  “Ned  is  so  matter-of-fact ! Now,  if  I ’m 
reading  a book,  and  come  across  a passage  that  delights 
me,  I always  want  to  put  my  arms  round  the  author’s 
neck  and  kiss  him.  Well,  I read  it  to  Ned,  and  he  says, 
quietly,  — without  looking  up  from  his  newspaper, — 
‘ Yes,  it  is  pretty  good.’  0,  dear ! he  never  gets  up 
enthusiasm  about  anything.  He  lacks  feeling.  It’s 


THE  TEST  OF  LOVE. 


287 


really  pitiable,  Matty ; ” — throwing  hersel^^  on  the  sofa 
with  a suppressed  yawn. 

“ ‘ All  is  not  gold  that  glitters,’  Mary ; and  there  are 
gems,  of  whose  value  the  possessor  is  sometimes  ignorant. 
These  butterflies,  that  ciazzle  in  society,  are  mostly  mere 
moths  at  home.  Abroad  they  arc  elegant,  refined, 
polished,  graceful,  full  of  repartee  and  wit;  but  by 
their  own  hearth-stones  silent,  moody,  selfish,  exacting 
and  uninteresting.  You’d  never  recognize  them  ! You 

remember  Vivian ? Well,  that’s  his  mental 

daguerreotype ; in  private  he  is  the  most  unlovable  of 
mortals.” 

“ Well,  this  world  is  a humbug,  then,”  said  Mary,  “ or 
I ’m  one  of  its  restless,  dissatisfied  ones;  and,  by  the  way, 
Matty,  how  came  you  to  be  an  old  maid  ? ” 

‘‘  Simply  because  you  appropriated  the  only  man  I 
ever  wanted,”  was  Matty’s  quiet  reply. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Mary’s  temples ; she  was  by 
Matty’s  side  in  an  instant,  urging  her  to  “ full  confes- 
fion.” 

“Ah,  I see,  m}  little  lady,  your  heart  is  in  the  right 
place,  after  all,  e;lse  you  would  not  be  jealous.  I have 
great  hopes  of  ^jou  ! ‘ Blessings  often  brighten  ’ when 
we  imagine  they  arc  • about  to  take  flight ! ’ Your 
husband  never  spoke  a word  of  love  to  me  in  his  life, 

I only  wish  that  he  had ! I shall  not  enjoin  secrecy  upon 
you  as  to  my  preference,  because  I know  very  well  you 


238 


THE  TEST  OF  LOVE, 


jvould  not  have  him  know  it  for  a kingdom ! So  1 am 
safe ! But  seriously,  Mary,  you  don’t  know  how  to  value 
Edward.  A few  more  years  over  your  sunny  head,  and 
a little  more  experience  of  the  world,  and  you  would  not 
barter  him  for  the  most  brilliant  idol  your  imagination 
ever  set  up  for  your  heart  to  worship,” 

That  day  was  nearer  than  Matty  prophesied ! Mary, 
shortly  after,  was  taken  dangerously  ill.  For  weeks  she 
balanced  between  life  and  death.  Whose  supplicating 
eye  sought  the  physician’s  with  such  tearful  anx’ety  ? 
Whose  hand,  with  more  than  a woman’s  tenderness, 
smoothed  her  pillow,  and  shaded  the  light  from  her  ach- 
ing eyeballs  ? Who,  with  uplifted  finger,  crept  softly 
about  the  house,  hushing  every  noisy  footfall  ? Who 
surrounded  her  with  every  comfort  and  luxury  that 
affection  could  think  of,  or  money  — hardly  earned  — 
could  procure  ? Who,  when  wearied  with  business  cares, 
still  kept  tireless  vigil ; till  the  stars  faded  away,  at  the 
bedside  of  the  poor  sufferer  ? 

Who  grasped  the  physician’s  hand,  saying,  ‘‘  Save  her : 
It  is  life  or  death  with  me,  as  well  as  Mary?”  Who 
but  the  “ matter-of-fact  ” Edward  ? 

One  day,  after  Mary  was  convalescent,  I called  to  see 
her.  She  was  looking  very  lovely,  though  pale  and 
wasted.  “Thank  God  you  are  spared  to  us!”  said  I, 
touching  my  lips  to  her  forehead. 

“ After  Him,  thank  my  husband,”  said  Mary,  with  eyet 


THE  T E 3 '1'  OF  LOVE. 


239 


liquid  with  feeling.  “ In  this  sick-room  I have  learned  a 
lesson  I shall  never  forget.  0,  Matty  ! there  may  be 
deep,  strong  love  in  the  heart  where  deeds,  not  words 
are  the  interpreters ! Please  God  to  spare  my  life,  m ^ 
poor  love  shall  be  bis  reward  for  tblp  ’ ” 

Mary  kept  her  wci  u 


CRiLU-LJ  h E 


How  often  do  we  hear  a mother  saj,  coaplamingly,  ot 
her  child,  “She  has  such  exuberant  spirits ! — she  is  so  full 
of  life  ! ’’  Hush  ! lay  your  finger  on  your  lip.  Thank 
God  for  it.  He  who  appointeth  our  lot  knows  for  what 
purpose  it  was  given.  Have  you  never  observed  that 
the  pathway  of  such  an  one  is  sure  to  be  marked  by  no 
ordinary  trials  ? It  is  a wise  bestowment,  from  Him  who 
seeth  the  end  from  the  beginning.  Deal  tenderly  with 
her  ; check  not  her  innocent  gayety.  Make  her  child- 
hood and  youth  happy.  Cloud  not  her  sunny  brow  by 
drawing,  unnecessarily,  dark  pictures  of  life ; fill  not  her 
confiding  heart  with  distrust  towards  its  fellows. 

Let  her  read,  if  she  will,  love  in  human  faces.  Earth 
is  not  all  a charneLhouse  of  decayed  hopes  and  blasted 
anticipations.  “ God  is  love.”  Life  is  beautiful.  Mid- 
night, — starry,  silent  midnight,  — with  its  glorious 
beauty ; the  silver  moon  riding  in  majesty  or  veiled  in 
fleecy  clouds ; the  cheerful  sun  walking  in  brightness ; the 
rainbow-tinted  sunset  clouds ; the  sweet  gray  dawn,  with 
its  stirring  life ; the  forest-clad  hills  crowned  with  the 
bow  of  promise ; the  towering  rock,  the  shining  river,  the 


CHILD-LIFE. 


241 


flower-wreathed  meadow,  the  deep  blue  sea,  the  grand 
old  woods,  with  their  whispered  music ; and  in  and 
among  them  all,  still,  hearts  that  are  noble,  good,  and 
true,  beat  with  sympathy  for  a brother’s  wrongs,  and 
are  open-handed  to  the  call  of  charity.  Tell  not  the 
young  heart,  so  keenly  susceptible,  that  every  cup  is 
drugged  with  poison ; that  ’neath  every  flower  a ser- 
pent coils.  Who,  among  us.,  could  fearlessly  again  enter 
upon  life,  and  cheerfully  enjoy  it  with  such  a chart  of 
shoals  and  quicksands  before  our  vision  ? God,  in  His 
mercy,  has  hidden  the  future  from  ou.  vision.  “ Give  us 
this  day  our  daily  bread,”  is  the  petition  He  has  taught 
us.  Shall  the  blessings  of  to-day  be  received  with  a 
churlish  spirit,  because  we  know  not  what  to-morrow  may 
bring  us  ? That  morrow  we  may  never  see  ; nor  should 
we  impatiently  demand  to  know,  whether  for  us  it  come 
freighted  with  joy  or  sorrow. 

I have  read  a story  of  three  little  trout,  which,  discon- 
tented and  unhappy,  desired  each  to  have  a wish  that 
should  be  granted.  The  first  wished  for  wings,  that  it 
might  fly ; the  next  wished  for  a great  deal  of  knowledge, 
and  to  understand  all  about  hooks  and  nets,  that  it  might 
keep  out  of  danger;  the  third,  — a poor,  ignorant  fish, 
and  not  knowing  what  was  best,  — wished  that  God  would 
take  care  of  him,  and  choose  for  him,  and  give  him  just 
what  he  saw  best.  So  God  gave  wings  to  the  first ; and, 
delighted  with  the  exercise  of  his  new  power,  he  flew  far 
K 


242 


CHI  L D - L I F E . 


far  away,  to  a desert,  where  he  died  from  thirst.  To  the 
second  he  gave  knowledge,  and  so  he  was  all  the  time  in 
terror  ; he  was  afraid  to  go  into  deep  water,  lest  the  great 
fishes  should  swallow  him,  and  he  was  afraid  to  go  into 
shallow  water,  lest  it  should  dry  up  and  leave  him.  He 
dared  not  eat  anything,  lest  a hook  might  be  concealed  in 
it ; and  so  he  pined  away  and  died. 

But  God  loved  the  third  little  trout  (who  trusted  in 
Him),  and  took  care  of  him,  and  kept  him  from  all 
dangers,  so  that  he  was  always  happy. 

My  story  carries  with  it  its  own  moral.  Let  the 
buoyant-hearted,  hopeful  little  mariner  you  love,  launch 
his  little  bark  on  life’s  ocean,  praying  always  the  Great 
Pilot  for  a happy  voyage  and  safe  port. 


‘‘THE  OLD  HOUSE, 


With  its  ancient  elms,  its  ambitious  woodbine, — whicL 
never  was  weary  of  trying  to  peep  into  the  fourth-stor} 
window ; — its  honeysuckle  porch,  where  lovers  came  foi 
a bright-eyed  welcome,  and  lingered  to  repeat  their 
adieux ; where  papa  made  his  appearance  at  the  ortho- 
dox hour  of  “ nine,”  to  warn  bewitched  daughters  of — 
“ the  night  air  ” (?) , where  midnight  serenaders  charmed 
open  the  eyes  of  beauty ; where  the  poor,  maimed  and 
blind  came,  sure  of  a wholesome  morsel ; where  relations 
— by  Adam,  and  nearer  — had  carte  blanche  to  pass  in, 
and  take  their  own  time  to  pass  out ; where  the  humming- 
bird and  drowsy  bee  lingered  lovingly  amid  the  flowers; 
where  the  soft  west  wind  lifted  refreshingly  the  silver 
hair  of  age,  the  silken  tendrils  of  the  infant,  and  the 
glossy  tresses  of  laughing  girlhood. 

Now  pass  we  in  through  the  wide  hall.  See  the 
antique  clock,  surmounted  by  a picture  of  a sailor 
approaching  a tavern.  Papa  is  a stanch  Taylorite 
so  he  has  had  “ Bethel  ” inscribed  over  the  inn  dooi 
and  Jack  is  arbitrarily  made  a temperance  man ; — 
and  has  held  that  Bible  in  his  hand  ever  since  I wore 


THE  OLD  HOUSE.” 


‘244 

jjantalettes  ! And  here  is  the  old-fashioned  parlor,  with 
its  broad  fire-place,  its  carved  mouldings,  and  its  anti- 
modern landscape  paper,  — so  interesting  to  the  juve- 
niles. Here  the  timid,  doubtful  lover  first  asked  consent 
of  papa  “ to  hang  up  his  hat.”  Here  the  die  was  cast 
whether  the  son  should  be  allowed  to  be,  what  nature 
made  him,  a poet ! Here  were  read  the  confidential  fam- 
ily letters  from  college  and  boarding-school.  Here  was 
planted  the  Christmas  tree,”  with  its  shining  lights  and 
glittering  gifts.  Here  was  spread  our  New  Year’s  supper, 
with  its  little  remembrances ; here  our  Thanksgiving  din- 
ner, with  “ chicken  fixins”  enough  to  feed  a small  army. 
Here  sat  the  i:> o , y-affianced  maiden,  bearing,  with  the 
best  grace  she  might,  certain  allusions  to  “ next  year  at 
this  time ! ” Happy  grandpapa,  as  he  “ numbered  the 
people”! — smiling  as  he  looked  backward  on  life’s  track, 
tearful  as  he  glanced  forward  to  its  goal ! Under  that 
window, 

“ The  hand  of  blessing  was  trembling  laid 
On  snowy  forehead  and  simple  braid  ; 

And  the  words  were  spoken 

By  lips  that  never  their  trust  betrayed.’* 

Under  that  window  rested  the  coffin  of  the  bride  of  a 
year  ! There,  too,  we  looked  our  last  upon  the  face  of 
sweet,  lovely  Lena ! ” There  the  dimpled  hands  of 
childhood  were  crossed  by  the  broken-hearted  mother 
There,  dear,  warm-hearted  grandmother  received  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE/’ 


•245 


carcssess  of  her  children  with  — for  the  first  time  — 
neither  smile  nor  word  of  blessing ! We  shall  surely 
“meet  again,”  But  now  “the  old  house”  is  desolate! 
The  roses  and  clematis  are  rooted  up,  like  our  hopes. 
The  utilitarian  axe  has  been  laid  at  the  root  of  every  tree 
A house  has  been  planted  in  the  garden ; the  blessed 
sunlight  streams  no  longer  in  our  pleasant  sitting-room. 
The  fingers  which  swept  the  guitar,  at  that  vine-clad  door, 
are  dust ! The  lips  that  sang  of  heaven,  are  “ nearer 
home.”  Husband  and  wife  sleep  peacefully,  unmindful 
of  the  storm  which  beats  down  the  fluttering;  wing:s  of 
their  timid  household  doves.  The  widow  Tvalks  alone. 
The  orphan  finds  no  heart  so  true  as  the  one  over  which 
the  green  sod  is  pressing.  Far  and  wide  are  scattered 
the  remnant  of  that  household  band.  Oceans  have  been 
crossed,  foreign  lands  travelled  o’er,  silver  threads  have 
mingled  in  dark  tresses ; but  “ may  our  right  hand  forget 
its  cunning,”  if  that  dear  “old  house”  be  not  treasured 
in  our  hearts  as  a sacred  thing  forever  ! 


‘‘SEEING  THE  FOLLY  OF  IT” 

‘‘Now,  mother,”  said  Edward,  “don’t  say  a ‘word 
against  Etta’s  going  to  the  dance  to-night.  I have  talked 
myself  hoarse,  before  1 could  bring  father  over.  The 
sleighing  is  fine,  and,  with  a swift  horse,  ten  miles  will 
soon  be  compassed, — and  Etta  is  such  a pretty  dan- 
cer ! ” 

“ But  you  don’t  consider,  Edward,  that  your  sister’s 
health  is  delicate,  and  a change  of  dress  will  be  a great 
exposure.  And,  then,  the  biting  cold.” 

“ Mother,  you  would  n’t  have  talked  so  at  nineteen,” 
said  Edward,  laughing.  “ You  forget  when  you  and 
father  used  to  dance  till  two  in  the  morning.” 

“ AJi ! ” said  Mrs.  Leland,  with  a sigh,  “ but  we  Ve 
seen  the  folly  of  it.” 

“ W ell,  that’s  just  what  we  want  to  do  ! There’s 
nothing  like  experience,  you  know.  We  want  to  see 
the  folly  of  it,  too ; so  say  no  more,  please ! ” said  the 
3oaxing  boy. 

Mrs.  Leland,  persuaded  against  her  judgment,  gave  a 
reluctant  corifsenfc.  “ liemember,  Edward,”  said  she,  “ it 
must  be  the  last  time.” 


"‘SEEING  THE  FOLLY  OF  IT  , 


247 


“Thanks  for  so  much,  then,”  said  Ned,  as  he  flew  uj: 
stairs  to  find  his  sister.  “ Come,  Etta,  I am  victor ; leave 
your  guitar,  pick  up  your  trinkets,  and  brush  out  those 
long  curls.  The  sleigh  will  be  here  in  an  hour,  and  we 
must  meet  our  party  at  the  hotel  by  eight.  Wear  a 
becoming  dress,  and  look  your  prettiest.  I have  a reason 
of  my  own  for  being  over-particular  to-night.  Mother 
has  gone  out,  but  she  has  charged  me  to  tell  you  to  wrap 
up  warm.  One  would  think  you  were  sixty,  instead  of 
sixteen.” 

And  so  the  bright  ringlets  were  smoothed,  and  the 
silken  stocking  was  drawn  over  the  graceful  ankle,  and 
the  snowy  arms  glittered  with  gems,  and  the  warm 
merino  dress  was  discarded,  and  the  round,  white  shoul- 
aers  rose  fair  from  the  blue  robe  that  fitted  so  charm- 
ingly, and  the  little  rose  that  nestled  in  her  curls  looked 
not  fresher  or  sweeter  than  the  wearer. 

“That’s  a darling!”  said  Edward;  “you  are  look- 
ing your  \erj  best.  I don’t  know  how  you  are  going 
to  ‘ wrap  up,’  though,”  said  the  thoughtless  boy ; “ but 
I suppose  women  understand  such  things.  I never  shall 
hear  the  last  of  it,  if  you  should  happen  to  sneeze  to- 
morrow. But  here ’s  the  sleigh.  What  a nice  horse  ! 
How  the  snow  will  fly  from  under  his  feet ! Won’t  we 
have  a merry  time,  hey  ? ” 

The  buffalo  robes  were  carefully  wrapped  about  them, 
and  Edward  took  the  reins.  The  fleet  horse  skimmed 


!248 


“SEEING  THE  POLLY  OF  IT, 


the  ground  like  a bird  on  the  wing ; the  city  was  soon 
left  behind  ; fences,  houses,  trees,  disappeared  as  if  by 
magic.  They  chatted  and  laughed,  and  for  the  first 
few  miles,  Etta  enjoyed  the  swift  motion  and  keen, 
frosty  air. 

“ I can’t  think  what  mother  meant,”  said  Edward, 
“ by  saying  that  this  must  be  your  ‘ last  time  I ’ I had 
made  up  my  mind  for  a dozen  more  frolics  like  this, 
before  winter  is  over ; and  father  and  mother  used  to 
be  so  gay,  too,  at  our  time  of  life.  I have  heard  Uncle 
Ralph  tell  what  a belle  mother  was,  and  how  handsome 
she  used  to  look ; and  that  we  used  to  be  fed  on  ‘ God- 
frey’s Cordial  ’ by  the  nurse,  to  keep  us  quiet  till  she 
came  back.  Well,  well ; we  will  have  a good  time 
to-night,  if  we  never  have  another.  What,  shivering  ? 
Here,  curl  down  under  the  buffalo,  pull  your  veil  down, 
and  nestle  up  to  me and,  spurring  up  the  spirited 
horse  anew,  they  dashed  on.  Etta  kept  very  quiet  , 
and  Ned,  intent  upon  gaining  the  hotel  in  the  shortest 
possible  space  of  time,  left  her  reverie  undisturbed. 
On  — on  — on  they  went,  distancing  all  competitors,  till 
the  foaming,  panting  horse  had  performed  well  his 
task  ! 

“ Come,  Etta,  we  are  here  at  last.  Fast  asleep,  1 
declare  ! It  would  be  a joke  to  take  her  up,  furs  and 
all,  and  carry  her  in,  just  as  she  is.”  Suiting  the  action 
to  the  words,  he  carefully  lifted  his  light  burthen,  and, 


‘SEEING  THE  FOLLY  OF  IT. 


249 


entering  the  little  parlor  appropriated  to  their  reception, 
said,  “ Here,  girls ; Etta  is  fast  asleep,  or  pretending 
to  be  ; — any  of  you  who  choose  may  unroll  the  mummy. 
I think  you  will  find  her  fresher  than  Glidden’s  ! ” The 
gay  bevy  gathered  round  her,  and,  untying  her  thick 
voil,  stood  speechless  with  horror.  Poor  Etta  was  frozen 
to  death  ! It  was,  indeed,  “ her  last  time  ! ’ 

K* 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  LILY. 


They  were  neat  little  pallets.  One  could  find  no  fault 
with  them,  with  their  snowy  sheets  and  Mosaic  quilts  of 
patchwork.  In  each  was  a little,  homeless,  houseless 
orphan,  taken  in  for  shelter.  “ Miss  Betsey  ” had  been 
the  rounds,  and  seen  each  little  head  duly  deposited  on  its 
pillow.  A very  nice,  particular,  proper  person,  was  Miss 
Betsey  ! The  “ Board  of  Directors  ” said  so,  and  Miss 
Betsey  thought  so  herself ! Her  hair  was  as  smooth  as 
her  tongue,  and  her  kerchief  starched  as  stiff  as  her 
manners.  Not  one  of  those  little  vagrant  hands  would 
have  thought  of  touching  that  immaculate  calico  dress. 
She  had  heard  them  all  say  their  prayers,  — listened  at 
the  door  to  see  if  any  dared  break  the  rule  that  “ forbade 
their  speaking,”  and  went  down  to  a comfortable  dish  of 
tea  and  hot  buttered  muffins,  satisfied  that  she  had  min- 
istered to  every  want  of  their  childish  natures,  temporal 
and  spiritual.  Blind  Miss  Betsey ! There  are  depths, 
even  in  a child’s  soul,  yours  cannot  fathom  ! 

A little  head  is  cautiously  raised  from  its  pillow.  The 
eyes  that  look  slowly  around  upon  those  sleeping  forms, 
are  large,  dark,  and  sorrowful.  Hot  tears  fall  thick 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  LILY- 


251 


and  fast  upon  the  clasped  hands.  “ Mother  ! mother  ! ' 
is  wrung  from  a little  heart,  too  young  to  bear  its  weight 
of  grief  unshared ; and  the  little  head  falls  back  again  in 
helpless,  hopeless  misery,  on  the  pillow.  Lily  closes  her 
eyes,  but  she  is  not  asleep.  No,  no  ! She  sees  a form, 
languid  and  emaciated,  stretched  upon  a dying  bed.  She 
feels  the  soft  touch  of  a dear  hand  on  her  forehead ; large, 
mournful  eyes  follow,  follow,  follow  her,  sleeping  or  wak- 
ing. A sweet,  low  voice  lingers  ever  in  her  ear  ; “Grod 
protect  my  orphan  child  ! ” 

Miss  Betsey  has  told  Lily  that  He  has  done  it ; that 
she  ought  to  be  very  thankful  she  is  in  such  a nice  insti 
tution ; and  that  if  she  is  “ good,”  she  shall  live  out  to 
service,  some  day,  with  a good  lady.  And  Lily  pushes 
back  the  thick  hair  with  her  delicate  hand,  and  wonders 
what  “ going  out  to  service,”  means ; and  Miss  Betsey 
takes  the  long  curls  she  has  clipped  from  her  hoad,  and 
throws  them  out  the  window,  and  asks  her  if  she  don’t 
feel  grateful  she  has  such  a kind  friend  as  herself?  And 
Lily  tries  to  swallow  a i^reat  lump  in  her  throat,  that 
seems  like  to  choke  her,  and  says,  “ Yes,  ma’am ;”  while 
she  forces  back  to  their  source  the  large  tears  that  are 
gathering  under  her  eyelids.  Then  she  looks  at  the 
unbending,  prim  figure  of  Miss  Betsey,  and  wonders  was 
she  ever  a little  girl  ? And  did  her  mother  ever  die,  and 
leave  her  all,  all  alone  ? And  she  feels  as  if  she  must 
throw  herself  on  somebody’s  neck,  and  ask  them  to  love 


•252 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  LILY. 


her.  And  then  she  looks  again  at  Miss  Betsey  ; but  the 
quick  instinct  of  childhood  says,  — “ No,  no,  not  there  ! 
And  then  she  wonders  what  makes  all  the  children  in  the 
house  seem  like  grown  people  ; and  why  they  tremble  if 
they  tumble  down,  or  drop  a book  by  accident ; and  why 
they  eat  less  and  less,  every  day,  of  their  little  soup  din- 
ners ; and  what  makes  her  head  so  dizzy  when  she  tries  to 
knit.  And  then  she  wonders  if  heaven  is  a great  way  off, 
and  how  long  it  will  be  before  she  gets  there.  And  then 
her  over-charged  heart  can  restrain  itself  no  longer  amid 
those  voiceless,  silent  sleepers,  but  finds  vent  in  a long, 
long,  bitter  cry  of  anguish. 

“ Miss  Betsey  ” comes  up,  and  tells  her  she  is  ‘‘  very 
naughty  to  break  the  rules and  Lily  says,  amid  her 
sobts  that  she  “ wants  to  go  to  heaven,  with  mamma  ! ” 
And  Mis  > Betsey  asks,  “ if  mamma  belongeu  to  the 
church  ? ” and  Lily  “ thinks  not.’’  And  Miss  Betsey 
shakes  her  head,  doubtfully,  — tells  her  she  hopes  she 
will  be  better  than  her  mother.  Advises  her  to  “ say 
her  prayers,”  and  goes  down  again  to  her  buttered 
muffins. 


“I’m  tired  of  life,  Mary  ! ” said  the  elegant  widow 
Gray.  “ I ’m  sick  of  its  hollowness  and  insincerity.  T 
owe  all  my  friends,  save  yourself,  to  the  accidents  of 
wealth  and  positi(;n.  If  Heaven  had  only  blessed  me 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  LILY. 


253 


vrith  children  ! Could  I find  one  to  mj  mind,  I ’d  adopt 
it  to-morrow  ; but  it  must  be  a poetical  child,  Mary,  — 
a little,  fragile,  spiritual,  delicate  blossom.  Would  n’t  it 
be  a joy  to  watch  such  a mind  unfold  itself!  — to  listen 
to  all  its  original  sayings,  and  teach  it  to  love  me 

IS  only  such  a child  can  love  ! Where ’s  my  bonnet  ? 

I m off  to  the Asylum  ! That  imaginary  child  of 

mine  must  have  its  human  counterpart  somewhere.” 

“ Stay  ! ” said  her  thoughtful  friend.  “ Such  a child 
you  speak  of — should  you  find  it  — requires  skilful 
training.  No  careless,  unpractised  hand  should  swee]f 
so  delicate  a harp.  A heart  with  such  a capacity  to 
love,  has  a capacity  equally  intense  for  suffering. 
When  you  have  trained  her  to  habits  of  luxury,  and 
refined  her  tastes,  if  you  weary  of  your  charge,  and 
allow  her  to  fiill  back  upon  the  guardianship  of  th 
rough,  the  coarse,  and  unfeeling,  who  would  consider  ner 
superiority  only  a fit  mark  for  the  brutal  sneer  or  coarse 
jest,  — spiteful,  because  so  far  beneath  her,  — what 
then  ? ” 

“ 0,  don’t  preach,  Mary  ! ‘ SufiGicient  unto  the  day,’ 

&c.  Where ’s  my  hat  and  shawl  ? ” said  the  impulsive 
woman. 


“This  is  our  school-room,  Mrs.  Gray,”  said  Miss  Bet- 
sey, '-The  cLildren  are  all  very  comfortable  and  very 


254 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  LILY. 


happy,  as  you  see.  It  would  be  hard  for  one  of  thc-jk  lo 
leave  me,  I suppose ; but  I shall  say  ‘ It  is  for  the  best,* 
if  you  find  one  to  your  mind.” 

Mrs.  Gray  glanced  up  and  down  the  long  rows  of 
benches,  and  her  artistic  eye  failed  to  be  favorably  im- 
pressed with  the  little  cropped  beads  and  bolster-like 
forms,  swathed  up  in  factor;^  gingham  ; and  she  was  just 
about  retiring,  disappointed,  when  her  eye  caught  sight 
of  “Lily.”  A quick,  bright  flush  came  to  her  cheek,  and 
her  eye  kindled,  as  she  steed  before  her. 

The  vigil  of  the  night  previous  had  exhausted  the  little 
creature.  Her  knitting  lay  upon  the  floor,  her  small 
hands  had  fallen  listlessly  on  her  lap,  her  head  resting 
lovingly  on  the  shoulder  of  her  next  neiglibor.  Her  long 
lashes  were  damp  vvdth  tears  that  still  trembled  on  her 
cheek  ; her  silken  hair,  spite  of  Miss  Betsey,  had  formed 
itself  in  little  rings  about  her  temples ; and  the  careless 
grace  of  her  attitude,  notwithstanding  her  unbecoming 
dress,  was  a study  for  a painter. 

“Will  you  go  with  this  lady  ?”  said  the  prim  Miss 
Betsey,  as  the  startled  child  unclosed  her  eyes  at  the 
touch  of  those  skeleton  fingers.  Lily  brushes  her  hand 
across  her  eyes,  as  if  bewildered  with  the  sweet  face 
before  her,  and  not  quite  sure  that  she  is  not  dreaming, 
“ My  mother  smiled  at  me  so,”  said  she,  musingly,  as  sh(! 
slid  her  little  hand  into  Mrs.  Gray’s. 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  LILY. 


255 


At  the  side  of  a richly  canopied  bed,  kaeels  our  little 
Lily.  “ Please  God  bless  my  new  mamma,  and  let  her 
go  to  heaven  with  me.”  Mrs.  Gray  stands  concealed 
behind  the  curtain.  Her  lip  quivers,  her  eyes  fill ; she 
has  never  prayed  that  prayer  for  herself!  She  struggles 
a moment  with  her  pride,  then,  gliding  forward,  she 
kneels  by  the  side  of  the  little  petitioner,  and  says,  “ Let 
us  pray  together,  Lily.” 

And  days,  and  months,  and  years  glide  by,  and  hily 
grows  more  beautiful  every  day,  in  the  sunshine  of  love, 
unspoiled  by  prosperity.  The  gay  world  has  lost  its 
power  to  charm  the  mother ; her  ear  is  deaf  to  the  voice 
of  adulation,  for  she  has  taken  an  angel  to  her  bosom,  and 
in  that  pure  pre.-Oiice,  she  looks  shuddering  back  upon 
long,  wasted  years  of  frivolity,  and  blesses  God  “ that  a 
little  child  ” hath  ^ led  her,” 

But  Lily’s  mission  now  is  over.  The  bright  hectic 
glows  with  fearful  brilliancy  on  that  marble  cheek.  The 
eyes  are  bright  with  a fire  that  is  fast  consuming  her. 
Mother  and  child  ! knit  together  by  a spiritual  birth,  how 
shall  they  part  now  ? “ Earth  is  still  fair ; Heaven  is 

fairer  ! ” whispers  Lily. 

“ Arms  empty  of  her  child  she  lifts. 

With  spirit  unbereaven,  — 

Go^i  will  not  take  back  all  his  gifts, 

Mjr  Lily ’s  mine  In  heav^en. 


2-*>6  1 h E T R A N S r 1.  A M T E D L I L 3f 

• Still  mine,  — maternal  rights  serene, 

Not  given  to  another, 

The  crystal  bars  shine  faint  between 
The  souls  of  child  and  mother. 

Well  done  of  God  to  halve  the  lot, 
And  give  her  all  the  sweetness ! 

To  us,  the  empty  room  and  cot ; 

To  her,  the  heaven’s  completenesfl. 

To  us,  this  grave  ; to  her,  the  rows 
The  mystic  palm  trees  spring  in  ; 

To  us,  the  silence  in  the  house  ; 

To  her,  the  choral  singing  ! 

For  her,  to  gladden  in  God’s  view  ,* 
For  us,  to  hope  and  bear  on  ; 

^row,  Lily,  in  thy  garden  new. 

Beside  the  Ense  of  Sharooi : 


NO  FICTION. 


The  last  ra^  of  sunlight  faded  from  Helen  Grray’s  attic 
window,  as  she  folded  the  coarse  garment  upon  which 
she  had  toiled,  unceasingly,  since  daylight.  Leaning  her 
head  wearily  upon  the  window-sill,  her  eyes  rested  upon 
the  large  house  opposite.  A servant  had  just  drawn 
aside  the  rich  curtains  at  the  bidding  of  his  mistress. 
With  what  a queenly  grace  the  Lady  Emma  reclined 
upon  that  blue  satin  fauteuil  ! How  softly  the  light 
fell  upon  braided  hair,  fair  brow,  and  soft,  dark  eyes  ! 
Passing  well  those  rare  gems  became  her  slend  ir  fingers  ! 
Helen’s  eyes  noted  it  all,  even  to  the  rich  vases,  and 
glittering  harp,  and  sweet  pictures.  '‘Beauty  and  wealth, 
cind  wedded  love!”  she  sighed,  as  she  closed  the  case- 
ment, — that  must  be  happiness. 

Helen  rose  the  next  morning,  restless  and  miserable;  her 
little  room  seemed  to  have  contracted  and  grown  darker  ; 
her  work  looked  coarser  and  more  repulsive.  She  looked 
at  her  hands,  they  were  slender  and  delicate,  — like 
Lady  Emma’s;  — her  brown  hair  was  parted  over  as  fair 
a brow ; the  coarse  robe  which  necessity  compelled  her 
to  wear  covered  limljs  as  round  and  symmetrical. 


NO  FICTION. 


25  b 

“ O ! why  not  some  of  the  pain  to  her,  and  some  of  the 
joy  to  me?’^  she  murmured,  as  rebellious  tears  forced 
themselves  through  her  slender  lashes. 

Short-sighted  Lily ! 

It  is  midnight.  The  Lady  Emma  sits  alone  in  her 
room,  with  unbanded  hair,  ungirdled  robe,  and  swollen 
eyelids.  Costly  gems  and  rich  robes  lie  there  unheeded : 
her  small  foot  is  half-buried  in  the  thick,  rich  carpet. 
Everywhere  the  eye  sees  luxury,  and  in  the  midst  a 
oroken-heart ! She  has  lived  to  see  him  who  stood  by 
her  side  at  Grod’s  altar,  and  who  promised  there  to  “ pro- 
jject  and  cherish  her,”  persecute  her  with  the  malice  of  a 
fiend.  In  no  point  of  a wife’s  duty  has  she  failed  toward 
him ; but  when  she  is  present  he  is  overlooked ; he  cannot 
forgive  her  mental  superiority.  Money,  that  he  thought 
vould  buy  him  respect  and  deference,  has  but  made  more 
glaring  his  mental  deficiencies,  and  careless  in  his  revenge 
that  the  slanders  he  sets  in  circulation,  will,  if  believed, 
dishonor  as  well  the  circulator  as  his  victim,  he  stops  short 
of  no  underhand  baseness  to  accomplish  his  purpose. 

He  would  rob  her,  if  he  could,  of  what  is  dearer  to  a 
woman  than  life  itself.  — her  good  name.  He  wou^  . 
make  it  — by  an  unseen  agency  — a gibe,  a snee.,  a 
taunt,  wherever  her  feet  shall  pass.  For  this  r-^rpose, 
her  escritoire  has  been  rifled  in  her  absence,  --private 
letters  unsuccessfully  perused,  while,  before  God,  he 
Knows  her  to  be  spotlessly  innocent,  Harsh  words  drive 


NO  FICTION. 


259 


the  color  from  her  lips,  as  he  enteiis  the  house;  the 
rough  grasp  of  the  delicate  arm,  contempt  in  the  presence 
of  servants,  and  the  accursed  sneer  in  the  presence  of  a 
boon  companion,  giving  encouragement  to  bandy  the 
sacred  name  of  wife  with  treacherous  lips,  have  all  been 
added.  What  human  ear  is  a safe  receptacle  for  such 
fireside  treachery  ? And  this  is  the  Lady  Emma's  happi- 
ness ! 

0,  dry  those  envious  tears,  sweet  Lily  ! and  know  that 
it  is  the  lofty  oak,  in  its  beauty  and  glory,  that  is  riven 
by  the  lightning  stroke ; while  the  humble  violet 
breathes  out  its  little  day  of  sweetness  in  unmolested 

peace. 


OoluENT  AT  MOUNT  AUBURN 


A MOTHER  had  laid  her  darling  in  the  earth.  Many 
mothers  have  done  this ; it  is  an  every-day  occurrence. 
Myriads  of  little  sculptured  forms  have  been  thus  laid  to 
rest,  with  blinding  tears,  — like  little  Mary. 

Friends  and  acquaintances  accompany  them  to  “ the 
narrow  door,”  and  there  they  leave  them.  Not  so  the 
mother ! Ah ! 'there  is  an  empty  crib  in  the  nursery , 
there  is  an  untenanted  chair  at  the  table ; there  are 
little  frocks  hanging  up  in  the  wardrobe ; there  are  half- 
worn  shoes  about,  with  the  impress  of  a chubby  little 
foot ; there  is  a little,  useless  straw  hat  in  the  entry  , 
there  are  toys  that  have  borne  its  wearer  happy  com- 
pany ; there  are  little  sisters  left,  — and  they  are  loved. 
But,  0,  not  like  the  dead  ! It  was  the  first-born,  and 
every  mother  who  reads  this  will  understand  the  height 
and  breadth,  and  length  and  depth  of  that  word.  In  all 
the  wide  earth  there  is  no  spot  so  dear  to  her  as  the 
little  mound  that  covers  her  child,  and  she  weeps  and 
shudders  when  the  cold  wind  sweeps  past  at  night,  and 
would  fain  warm  its  chilled  limbs  in  the  familiar  resting- 
place.  She  knows  the  casket  is  rifled  of  the  gem,  but 


INCIDENT  \T  MOUNT  AUBURN 


261 


the  eye  of  faith  is  blind  with  tears,  and  she  would  make 
her  home  at  its  grave,  and  would  not,  if  she  could,  divest 
herself  of  the  idea  that  such  companionship  would  make 
that  “ long,  last  sleep  ” more  peaceful. 

So  felt  my  bereaved  friend,  Emma , and  the 

watchful  love  of  her  husband  provided  her  a temporary 
home  near  the  grave  of  little  Mary.  The  rough  gardener 
would  draw  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  he  passed  her 
every  morning,  at  early  dawn,  sitting  by  that  little  head- 
stone, crowning  her  child  with  the  flowers  she  loved 
best ; while  the  uplifted  finger  and  softened  tread  of  the 
stranger  testified  his  mute  sympathy. 

One  evening  she  expressed  a desire  to  go  in  after  the 
“gates  were  closed.”  She  was  so  restlessly  miserable  that 
it  seemed  a cruelty  to  deny  her,  and  we  efiected  an 
entrance  through  a broken  palisade.  Amid  that  silent 
company  we  were  alone  ! The  stars  shone  on  as  brightly 
as  when  the  rayless  eyes  beneath  had  looked  lovingly  and 
hopefully  upon  their  radiance.  The  timid  little  birds 
fluttered  under  the  leaves  as  we  passed.  The  perfume 
of  a thousand  flowers  was  borne  past  us  on  the  night 
breeze.  In  that  spiritual  atmosphere  earth  seemed 
to  dwindle,  and  the  spirit,  like  a caged  bird,  beat 
against  the  bars  of  its  prison-house,  and  longed  to  try 
its  pinions  in  a freer  air.  There  was  an  unearthly 
expression  on  Emma’s  face  which  recalled'  me  to  myself 
I gently  drew  her  away  from  the  grave,  but  no  persua 


262 


INCIDENT  AT  MOUNT  AUBURN. 


sion  could  induce  her  to  leave  the  cemetery.  Her  cheek 
was  as  pale  as  a snow-wreath,  but  we  wandered  on  — on 
— till,  reaching  a low  seat,  beneath  the  trees,  she  wearily 
leaned  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  and  we  sat  silently 
down. 

Listen  ! Distinctly,  a sweet,  childish  voice  rings  out 
upon  the  still  air : ‘‘  Mother  ! mother  ! ” Emma  started 
to  her  feet,  — clasping  me  tightly,  — with  lips  apart,  and 
eyes  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Neither  spoke  ; 
and,  though  I am  no  believer  in  the  supernatural,  my 
limbs  tottered  under  me.  With  trembling  finger,  Emma 
silently  pointed  in  an  opposite  direction.  It  was  no 
illusion  ! There  was  a little  figure,  in  white,  gleaming 
through  the  darkness,  with  outstretched  arms,  and  snowy 
robe,  and  flowing  hair!  “Mother!  mother!”  As  it 
approached  nearer,  Emma  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

It  was  long  before  she  recovered  from  the  shock ; and 
yet,  dear  reader,  the  solution  of  the  mystery  is  simple. 
Her  youngest  child,  escaping  from  its  bed,  and  the 
charge  of  a careless  nurse,  had  started,  with  child- 
hood’s fearless  confidence,  to  seek  us  in  the  dim  laby- 
rinthine paths  of  the  cemetery. 

Ah,  little  Minnie  ! After  all,  it  was  “ an  angel  ” that 
we  saw,  “robed  in  white,”  with  that  shining  hair  and 
seraph  face ! 


A SUNDAY  MOKNiNG  SOLIL^ 
OQUY. 

I I70NDER  if  one  could  n’t  stay  at  home  from  church 
ko-d  y ? I Ve  a threatening  of  a headache,  — it ’s  un- 
com.lortably  hot,  — it’s  a trouble  to  dress.  It  would  be  so 
much  more  comfortable  to  sit  here  in  this  cool  room,  with 
closed  blinds,  dishabille^  than  to  encounter  this  hot, 
August  sun,  and  sit  down  among  a handful  of  people,  and 
listen,  perchance,  to  some  inanimate  preacher,  who  would 
drawl  out  the  hymns  very  much  as  an  ignorant  nursery- 
maid might  repeat  melodies  to  a sleepy  child. 

Now,  here ’s  a nice  book  to  read,  — newspapers,  too  ; 
and  there ’s  that  seductive  little  rocking-chair.  0,  I ’ll 
stay  at  home  ! No  1 won’t ; it ’s  a bad  habit.  I always 
feel  happier  if  I go  to  church.  I always  come  home, 
wishing  I was  more  of  a saint  and  less  of  a sinner.  The 
little  trifles  and  vexations  of  every-day  life  dwindle  when 
viewed  from  Mount  Calvary.  One  thinks  tearfully  of 
the  hasty  word,  when  its  meek  Sufferer  is  mentioned  J 
Ah ! we  have  need  of  all  these  helps  to  arrest  the  tide 
of  worldliness  which  rushes  over  our  spirits  throu^  the 
week.  The  stupidest  preacher  utters  some  truths.  If 


264  A SUNLAY  MORNING  SOLILOQUY. 

the  messenger  have  a stammering  tongue,  I ’ll  think  more 
of  his  errand  and  the  Master  who  sent  him. 

If  there  are  but  a handful  of  people,  the  more  need  1 
should  not  stay  away.  Yes,  I ’ll  go,  and  I ’ll  go  to  the 
poor  man’s  church,  where  the  pale  cheek  of  labor  is  not 
flushed  with  embarrassment  as  the  robe  of  plenty  sweeps 
past ; where,  side  by  side,  as  they  should,  kneel  mistress 
and  maid,  in  God’s  presence,  of  one  clay.  The  prayer- 
book,  which  h^s  been  handled  by  the  statesman,  passes 
through  the  toil-hardened  hands  of  his  servant.  Thank 
God,  one  day  in  the  week  he  can  realize  his  soul  is  of  as 
much  value  as  his  master’s ! How  soothing  is  that  solemn 
chant ! How  impressive  the  words  of  Life  ! ” How 
blessed  is  the  influence  of  the  Sabbath  ! 

And  so,  with  chastened  spirits,  we  return  home ; and 
the  little  creature  who  holds  my  hand,  says,  naively,  — 
“ Aunty,  I liked  that  sermon  ; it  seemed  just  like  a 
hymn  ! ” An  older  head  might  less  graphically  have 
described  the  poet  preacher’s  discourse. 


LITTLE  ALLIE. 


The  day  was  gloomy  and  chill.  At  the  freshly-opened 
grave  stood  a little,  delicate  girl  of  five  years,  the  only 
mourner  for  the  silent  heart  beneath.  Friendless,  hope- 
less, homeless,  she  had  wept  till  she  had  no  more  tears  to 
shed,  and  now  she  stood,  with  her  scanty  clothing  flutter- 
ing in  the  chill  wind,  pressing  her  little  hands  tightly  over 
her  heart,  as  if  to  still  its  beating. 

“ It ’s  no  use  fretting,”  said  the  rough  man,  as  he 
stamped  the  last  shovelful  of  earth  over  all  the  child 
had  left  to  love.  “ Fretting  won’t  bring  dead  folks  to 
life.  Pity  you  had  n’t  got  no  ship’s  cousins  somewheres, 
to  take  you.  It ’s  a tough  world,  this  ere,  I tell  ye.  I 
don’t  see  how  ye  ’re  going  to  weather  it.  Guess  I ’ll  take 
ye  round  to  Miss  Fetherbee’s ; she ’s  got  a power  of  chil- 
dren, and  wants  a hand  to  help  her  ; so  come  along.  If 
you  cry  enough  to  float  the  ark,  It  won’t  do  you  no  good.” 
Allie  obeyed  him  mechanically,  turning  her  head  every 
few  minutes  to  take  another  look  where  her  mother  lay 
buried. 

The  morning  sun  shone  in  upon  an  under-ground  kitch- 
en in  the  crowded  city.  Mrs.  Fetherbee,  attired  in  a gay- 
L 


266 


LITTLE  ALLIE. 


colored  calico  dress,  with  any  quantity  of  tinsel  jewelry, 
sat  sewing  some  showy  cotton  lace  on  a cheap  pocket- 
handkerchief.  A boy  of  five  years  was  disputing  with  a 
little  girl  of  three,  about  an  apple  ; — from  big  words 
they  had  come  to  hard  blows ; and  peace  was  finally 
declared,  at  the  price  of  an  orange  apiece  and  a stick 
of  candy,  — ^ each  combatant  “ putting  in  ” for  the 
biggest. 

Poor  Allie,  with  pale  cheeks  and  swollen  eyelids,  was 
staggering  up  and  down  the  floor,  under  the  weight  of  a 
mammoth  baby,  who  was  amusing  himself,  by  pulling  out 
at  intervals  little  handfuls  of  her  hair. 

“ Quiet  that  child,  can’t  ye  ? ” said  Mrs.  Fetherbee,  in 
no  very  gentle  tone.  “ I don’t  wonder  the  darling  is 
cross  to  see  such  a solemn  face.  You  must  get  a little 
life  into  you  somehow,  or  you  won’t  earn  the  salt  to  your 
porridge,  here.  There,  I declare,  you ’ve  half  put  his 
eyes  out  with  those  long  curls,  dangling  round.  Come 
here,  and  have  ’em  cut  ofi* ; they  don’t  look  proper  for  a 
charity  child and  she  glanced  at  the  short,  stubby 
crops  on  the  heads  of  the  little  Fetherbees. 

Allie’s  lip  quivered,  as  she  said,  “ Mother  used  to  love 
to  brush  them  smooth  every  morning.  She  said  they  were 
like  little  dead  sister’s  ; — please  don’t  ’ ” said  she 
beseechingly. 

“ But  I tell  you  I do  please  to  cut  ’em  oflP ; so  there ’s 
an  end  of  that ! ” said  she,  as  the  severed  ringlets  fell  in 


LITTLE  ALLTK 


267 


a shining  heap  on  the  kitchen  floor.  “ And  do,  for  crea- 
tion’s sake,  stop  talking  about  ‘ dead  ’ folks  ; — and  now 
eat  your  breakfast,  if  you  want  it.  T forgot  you  had  n’t 
had  any.  There ’s  some  of  the  children’s  left ; if  you  ’re 
hungry,  it  will  go  down  ; and  if  you  ain’t,  you  can  go 
without.” 

Poor  Allie  ! The  daintiest  morsel  would  n’t  have 
“ gone  down.”  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  wouldn’t 
be  forced  back,  and  she  sobbed  out,  “ I must  cry,  if  you 
beat  me  for  it,  my  heart  pains  me  so  bad.” 

‘‘  H-i-t-y,  T-i-t-y  ! What ’s  all  this  ? ” said  a broad- 
faced, rosy  milkman,  as  he  set  his  shining  can  down  on 
the  kitchen  table.  What ’s  all  this,  Miss  Fetherbee  ^ 
I ’d  as  lief  eat  pins  and  needles  as  hear  a child  cry . 
Who  is  she  ? ” pointing  at  Allie,  “ and  what ’s  the  mat- 
ter of  her  ? ” 

“ Why,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  she ’s  a poor 
pauper  that  we ’ve  taken  in  out  of  charity,  and  she ’s 
crying  at  her  good  luck,  — that ’s  all,”  said  the  lady,  with 
a vexed  toss  of  her  head.  “ That ’s  the  way  benevolence 
is  always  rewarded.  Nothing  on  earth  to  do  here,  but 
tend  the  baby,  and  amuse  the  children,  and  run  to  the 
door,  and  wash  the  dishes,  and  dust  the  furniture,  and 
tidy  the  kitchen,  and  go  of  a few  errands.  Ungrateful 
little  baggage ! ” 

Jemmy’s  heart  was  as  big  as  his  farm,  and  that  cov- 
ered considerable  ground.  Glancing  pitifiilly  at  the  lit- 


268 


r.  T T t Xj  K a li  L 1 1C 


tie  weeper,  he  said,  skilfully,  “That  child ’s  going  to 
sick,  Miss  Fetherbee,  and  then  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  her  ? Besides,  she ’s  too  young  to  be  of  much  use 
to  you.  You ’d  better  let  me  take  her.” 

“ Well,  I should  n’t  wonder  if  you  was  half  right,”  said 
the  frightened  woman.  “ She ’s  been  trouble  enough, 
already.  I ’ll  give  her  a ‘ quit  claim.’  ” 

“Will  you  go  with  me,  little  maid?”  said  Jemmy, 
with  a bright,  good-natured  smile. 

“ If  you  please,”  said  Allie,  laying  her  little  hand  con- 
fidingly in  his  rough  palm. 

“ Sit  up  closer,”  said  Jemmy,  as  he  put  one  arm  round 
her,  to  steady  her  fragile  figure,  as  they  rattled  over  the 
stony  pavement.  “ We  shall  soon  be  out  of  this  smoky 
old  city.  Consarn  it ! — I always  feel  as  if  I was  poisoned 
every  time  I come  into  town.  And  then  we  ’ll  see  what 
sweet  hay-fields,  and  new  milk,  and  clover  blossoms,  and 
kind  hearts,  will  do  for  you,  you  poor  little  plucked 
chicken  ! Where  did  you  come  from  when  you  came  to 
live  with  that  old  J ezebel  ? ” 

“ From  my  mother’s  grave  ! ” said  Allie. 

“Poor  thing!  — poor  thing!”  said  Jemmy,  wiping 
away  a tear  with  his  coat-sleeve.  “Well,  never  mind. 
I wish  I had  n’t  asked  you.  I ’m  always  running  my 
head  agin’  a beam.  Do  you  like  to  feed  chickens,  hey ! 
Did  you  ever  milk  a cow,  or  ride  on  top  a hay-cart,  or 
go  a berrying  ? Do  you  love  bouncing  red  apnles,  and 


L I T T 1.  E A L L I E . 


269 


peaches  as  big  as  your  fist  ? It  shall  go  hard  if  you 
don’t  have  ’em  all.  What ’s  come  of  your  hair,  child  ? 
Have  you  had  your  head  shaved  ? ” 

**  Mrs.  Fetherbee  cut  it  off,*’  said  Allie. 

“ The  old  vixen  ! I wish  I ’d  come  in  a little  quicker. 
Was  it  your  curls  them  young  ’uns  was  playing  with  ? 
Well,  never  mind,”  said  he,  looking  admiringly  at  the 
sweet  face  before  him ; “ you  don’t  need  ’em ; and  they 
might  get  you  to  looking  in  the  glass  oftener  than  was 
good  for  you.” 

“Well,  here  we  are,  I declare;  — and  there  stands 
my  old  woman  in  the  door-way,  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  sun.  I guess  she  wonders  where  I raised 
you  ! ” 

“ Look  here,  Betsey ; do  you  see  this  child  ? The 
earth  is  fresh  on  her  mother’s  grave  ! She  has  neither 
kith  nor  kin.  I ’ve  brought  her  from  that  old  skinflint 
of  a Fetherbee’s,  and  here  she  is.  If  you  like  her,  it ’s 
well  and  good  ; and  if  you  don’t,  she  ’ll  stay  here  just 
the  same.  But  I know  you  will ! ” said  he,  coaxingly, 
as  he  passed  his  brawny  arm  round  her  capacious  waist. 
And  now  get  her  something  that  will  bring  the  color  to 
her  cheeks ; for,  mind  you,  I ’ll  have  no  white  slaves  on 
my  farm  ! ” 

How  sweetly  Allie’s  little,  tired  limbs  rested  in  the  fra- 
grant lavendered  sheets ! A tear  lingered  on  her  cheek 
but  its  birth  was  not  of  sorrow.  Jemmy  pointed  it  out 


270 


LITTLE  ALLIE. 


to  his  wife,  as  they  stood  looking  at  her  before  retiring 
Tio  rest. 

“ Never  forget  it,  Betsey  ! ” said  he.  “ Harsh  words 
ain’t  for  the  motherless.  May  God  forget  me,  if  she  ever 
hears  one  from  my  lips  ! ” 


TliJ!.  FLIRT; 


OR,  THE  UNFAITHFUL  LOVER. 

Kate  Stanley  was  a brilliant,  sparkling  brunette 
W oe  to  the  rash  youth  who  exposed  his  heart  to  her 
fascinations ! If  he  were  not  annihilated  by  the  witch- 
ing glance  of  her  bright  eye,  he  would  be  sure  to  be 
caught  by  the  dancing  dimple  that  played  “hide-and 
seek  so  roguishly  in  her  rosy  cheek,  or  the  little, 
rounded  waist  that  supported  her  faultless  bust,  or  the 
tiny  feet  that  crept,  mice-like,  in  and  out  from  under  the 
sweeping  folds  of  her  silken  robe. 

I am  sorry  to  say  Miss  Kitty  was  an  arrant  coquette. 
She  angled  for  hearts  with  the  skill  of  a practised  sports- 
man, and  was  never  satisfied  till  she  saw  them  quivering 
and  bleeding  at  her  feet ; then,  they  might  flounce  and 
flutter,  and  twist  and  writhe  at  their  leisure,  — it  was  no 
furti  er  concern  of  hers.  She  was  off  for  a new  subject. 

One  fine  morning  she  sat  listlessly  in  her  boudoir, 
tapping  one  little  foot  upon  the  floor,  and  sighing  for  a 
new  sensation,  when  a note  was  handed  her.  It  ran 
thus  : 


272 


THE  flirt;  or 


“ Dear  Kjtty  : — Our  little  cottage  home  is  looking 
lovely,  this  ‘leafy  June.’  Are  you  not  weary  of  city 
life  ? Come  and  spend  a month  with  us,  and  refresh 
heart  and  body.  You  will  find  nothing  artificial  here, 
save  yourself ! ‘ Y >v  r 

“ Nelly.” 

“Just  the  thing,”  said  Kitty.  “But  the  girl  must  be 
crazy,  or  Intolerably  vain,  to  bring  me  into  such  close 
contact  with  her  handsome  lover.  I might  as  well  try 
to  stop  breathing  as  to  stop  flirting ; and  the  country,  of 
all  places,  for  a flirtation ! The  girl  must  be  non  compos. 
However,  it’s  her  own  affair,  not  mine  and  she  glanced 
triumphantly  at  her  beautiful  face,  and  threaded  her 
jewelled  fingers  through  her  long  ringlets,  and  conquered 
him — in  imagination  ! 

“ When  do  you  expect  your  friend  ? ” said  a laugiiiiig 
young  girl  to  Nelly.  “ From  the  descriptions  I have  had 
of  her,  your  bringing  her  here  will  be  something  akin  to 
the  introduction  of  Satan  into  Paradise.  You  would  not 
find  me  guilty  of  such  a folly,  were  I engaged  to  your 
handsome  Fitz.  Now  you  know,  Nelly  dear,  that  al- 
though you  are  fascinating  and  intellectual,  you  have  no 
pretensions  lo  beauty,  and  there  are  few  men  who  prize 
a gem,  unless  it  is  handsomely  set,  however  great  its 
value.  Now  be  warned  in  time,  and  send  him  off  on 


THE  UNFAITHFOL  LOVER. 


273 


pilgrimage,  till  her  visit  is  over.  I won’t  bet  on  hk 
constancy  ! ” 

“ On  the  contrary,”  said  Nelly,  as  she  rose  slowly 
fi  om  the  little  couch  where  she  was  reclining,  and  her 
small  figure  grew  erect,  and  her  large  eyes  lustrous,  “I 
would  marry  no  man  who  could  not  pass  through  such  an 
ordeal  and  remain  true  to  me.  I am,  as  you  see,  hopeless- 
ly plain  and  ungraceful ; yet,  from  my  earliest  childhood, 
I have  been  a passionate  worshipper  of  beauty.  I never 
expected  to  win  love  ; I never  expected  to  marry ; and 
when  Fitz,  with  all  his  glorious  beauty,  sued  for  my  hand, 
I could  not  convince  myself  that  it  was  not  all  a bewil 
dering  dream.  It  was  such  a temptation  to  a heart  sc 
isolated  as  mine  ; and  eloquently  it  pleaded  for  itself ! 
When  I drank  in  the  music  of  his  voice,  I said,  ‘ Surely 
I must  be  lovely  in  his  eyes ; c se  why  has  he  sought 
me  ? ’ Then,  in  my  solitary  moments,  I said,  sadly, 
There  are  none  to  dispute  the  prize  with  me  here.  He 
is  deceiving  himself.  He  has  mistaken  his  own  heart.’ 
Then,  again,  I would  ask  myself,  ‘ Can  nothing  but  beauty 
win  a noble  heart  ? Are  all  my  intellectual  gifts  value- 
less ? ’ And  still,  Fitz,  unable  to  understand  my  contra- 
dictory moods,  passionately  urged  his  suit.  It  needed 
not  that  waste  of  eloquence  ; my  heart  was  already  cap- 
tive. And  now,  by  the  intensity  of  that  happiness  of 
which  I know  myself  to  be  capable,  I will  prove  him. 
Kate’s  beauty,  — Kate’s  witcherv,  shall  be  the  tent ! If 

18 


274 


THE  flirt;  or. 


his  heart  remains  loyal  to  me,  I am  his.  If  not,”  — and 
her  cheek  grew  pale,  and  large  tears  gathered  slowly  in 
her  eyes,  — “I  have  saved  myself  a deeper  misery  ! ” 

Fitz  Allan  had  “ travelled and  that  is  generally 
understood  to  mean  to  go  abroad  and  remain  a period 
of  time  long  enough  to  grow  a fierce  beard,  and  fiercer 
moustache,  and  cultivate  a thorough  contempt  for  every- 
thing in  your  own  country.  This  was  not  true  of  Fitz 
Allan.  It  had  only  bound  him  the  more  closely  to  home 
and  friends.  His  splendid  person  and  cultivated  manners 
had  been  a letter  of  recommendation  to  him  in  cultivated 
society.  He  was  no  fop,  and  yet  he  was  fully  aware  of 
these  personal  advantages.  What  handsome  man  is  not  ? 
He  had  trophies  of  all  kinds,  to  attest  his  skilful  general- 
ship ; such  as  dainty  satin  slippers,  tiny  kid  gloves,  faded 
roses,  ringlets  of  all  colors,  ebony,  flaxen  and  auburn,  and 
hijouterie  without  limit. 

Happy  Fitz  ! What  spell  bound  him  to  the  plain,  but 
lovable  Nelly?  A nature  essentially  fernin'ro;  a refined 
cultivated  taste;  a warm,  passionate  he’.  Did  he 
remember,  when  he  listened  to  that  most  musical  of 
musical  voices,  and  sat  hour  after  hour,  magnetized  b;y 
its  rare  witchery,  i S it  glanced  gracefully  and  skilfully 
from  one  topic  to  another,  that  its  possessor  had  not  the 
grace  and  beauty  of  a Hebe  or  a Y enus  ? 

It  was  a bright,  moonlight  evening.  Fitz  and  Nelly 
were  seated  in  the  little  rustic  parlor,  opening  upon  the 


THfi  UNFAITHFUL  LOVER. 


27b 


piazza.  The  moon  shone  full  upon  Kate,  as  she  stood  in 
the  low  doorway.  Her  simple  white  dress  was  contined 
at  the  waist  by  a plain  silken  cord.  Her  fair  white 
shoulders  rose  gracefully  from  the  snowy  roDe.  Her 
white  arms,  as  they  were  crossed  upon  her  breast,  or 
raised  above  her  head  to  catch  playfully  the  long  tendrils 
of  the  woodbine,  as  the  wind  swept  them  past  her  fore- 
head, gleamed  fair  in  the  moonlight ; and  each  and  all 
had  their  bewildering  charm.  She  seated  herself  upon 
the  low  door-step.  Song  after  song  was  borne  upon  the 
air.  Her  eyes  now  flashing  with  the  enthusiasm  of  an 
iniprovisatrice ; then,  soft,  and  lustrous,  and  liquid,  and 
— dangerous ! Nelly’s  heart  beat  quick  ; a deep  crim- 
son spot  glowed  upon  her  cheek,  and,  for  once,  ske  was 
beautiful. 

Kate,  apparently,  took  but  little  notice  of  the  lovers ; 
but  not  an  expression  that  flitted  across  the  flne  face  of 
Fitz  Allan  passed  unnoticed  by  her.  And  she  said, 
proudly,  to  herself,  “ I have  conquered  him  ! ” 

And  so  the  bright  summer  month  passed  by,  and  they 
rambled  through  the  cool  woods,  and  rode  through  the 
winding  paths,  and  sang  to  the  quiet  stars  in  the 
dewy  evening. 

^ ^ ^ 4^  4^ 

-7^  ^ ^ W ^ 

Fie,  Mr.  Fitz  Allan  ! What  would  Nelly  say,  to  see 
you  kneeling  here  at  my  feet  ? You  forget,”  said  the 
gay  beauty,  mockingly  curling  her  rosy  lip,  “that  you 


276 


THE  FLIRT. 


are  an  affianced  lover,  when  you  address  such  flattering 
language  to  me ! ” 

‘‘  [ only  know  that  you  are  beautiful  as  a dream!  ” said 
the  bewildered  Fitz,  as  he  passionately  kissed  the  jewelled 
hand  that  lay  unresistingly  in  his  own. 

That  night,  Fitz  might  be  seem  pacing  his  room  with 
rapid  strides,  crushing  in  his  hands  a delicate  note,  from 
Nelly,  containing  these  words: 

“ ‘The  moon  looks  on  many  brooks ; 

The  brook  sees  but  one  moon.' 


“ Farewell ! 


“Nellt.” 


FERN  GLEN. 


“ I love  God,  and  every  little  child.”  — Eichtbb. 

A VEBY  nice  old  gentleman  is  Uncle  Peter ! Wlio 
minds  if  lie  does  live  in  a rickety  old  house  ? Who  ever 
stops  to  think  that  the  cut  of  his  coat  may  have  been 
borrowed  from  Noah’s  tailor  ? Who  cares  if  he  does 
cook  his  own  food,  and  do  his  own  waiting  and  tending^ 
What  if  he  does  turn  his  head  the  other  way  when  he 
sees  a bonnet,  with  a woman  under  it  ? There  is  a tender 
place  somewhere  in  his  heart,  or  he  would  not  be  afraid 
of  them  ! Well,  never  mind  that.  Where  do  the  kites, 
and  bats,  and  balls,  and  bows,  and  arrows,  and  sleds,  all 
come  from,  for  half  the  urchins  in  the  village,  if  not  from 
Uncle  Peter  ? Are  not  those  capacious  pockets  of  his 
filled  with  nuts  and  checkerberries,  and  apples,  and 
maple  sugar,  till  the  seams  burst  ? Has  he  not  been 
driving  round  all  this  blessed  morning,  to  hunt  up  every- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a child,  to  take  tea  with  him  this 
afternoon  ? 

A handsome  old  man  is  Uncle  Peter ! They  say  he  has 
been  “crossed  in  love.”  Pity  it  did  not  happen  oftep<^i^ 


278 


FERN  GLEN 


then,  I say,  if  it  would  make  other  people  like  him  ! 
There  he  stands,  in  the  midst  of  his  lilacs  and  laburnums, 
as  simple,  and  child-like,  and  young  at  heart,  as  if  the 
snows  of  age  had  not  long  since  crowned  his  head.  The 
birds  peep  curiously  out  from  the  tiny  house  he  has 
leased  to  them,  and  Uncle  Peter  taxes  them  only  for  — 
songs. 

There  they  come  — the  children  — head-over-heels  ! 
No  fear  of  scowls,  or  frowns,  or  boxed  ears,  or  birchen 
rod,  at  Fern  Glen.  On  they  come  ! — a merry  troop, 
with  shining  cheeks,  bright  eyes,  and  clean  pinafores. 
Rosy  Tom,  laughing  Ellen,  timid  Fanny,  pensive  Laura, 
queenly  Kate,  modest  Mary,  romping  Ruth,  — ay.  Uncle 
Peter ! “ May  you  play  with  the  hay  ? To  be  sure, 

you  little  monkey  ; — did  n’t  I have  it  cut  on  purpose  ? ” 
Is  n’t  that  a pretty  sight,  now  ? See  that  little  curly 
head  emerging  from  the  hay-heap  ! With  what  a pretty 
grace  she  shakes  out  those  long  ringlets,  and  smooths  her 
tumbled  dress  with  those  little,  fat  hands.  Now  she  is  in 
Uncle  Peter’s  arms,  as  much  at  home  as  if  she  had  been 
cradled  there  all  her  life.  ’T  is  spring  and  autumn  ! 
The  little,  rosy  lips  are  held  temptingly  up  for  a kiss 
Uncle  Peter’s  eyes  moisten.  There  is  a stone  in  yonder 
churchyard,  that  covers  a heart  the  child  has  lain 
beneath.  The  blue  eyes,  that  look  so  lovingly  in  his, 
have  borrowed  their  hue  from  those  now  so  dark  and 
rayless,  mother  smiles  agnin  upon  the  solitarv  man 


FERN  GLEN. 


He  holds  little  Nelly  closer  to  his  heart;  — the  wide 
earth  contains  nothing  for  him  so  precious  as  the  lo\o  of 
that  sweet  child.  Uncle  Peter  thanks  God  there  is  no 
trace,  on  lip,  or  cheek,  or  brow,  of  him  who  won  the 
mother’s  love  but  to  break  her  heart.  But  no  more 
reveries,  if  you  please.  Uncle  Peter  ! Curious  eyes  have 
been  peeping  through  that  vine-clad  bower,  at  the  “ good 
things”  spread  upon  that  rustic  table.  Strawberries, 
red  and  tempting  as  childhood’s  lip ; cakes,  that  only 
Uncle  Peter  could  conjure  up  ; sugar-plums  and  candy, 
from  Betty  Prim’s  thread-and-needle  store ; sweet  milk 
from  steady  old  Brindle ; crispy  little  crackers  for  cun- 
ning little  mouths,  and  a bunch  of  wood  violets  for  each 
little  plate. 

And  now  the  dimpled  hands  are  reverently  folded,  and 
laughing  eyes  grow  serious,  for  good  old  Uncle  Peter  can- 
not forget  to  thank  “ Our  Father  ” for  daily  bread  and 
for  the  sweet  solace  of  childhood’s  love.  And  soon  the 
table  is  cleared,  as  if  scoured  by  a party  of  squirrels  ; and 
what  cannot  be  eaten  is  stowed  away  in  little  pockets,  for 
future  use.  They  all  gather  round  Uncle  Peter,  and 
every  story  he  tells  is  “ prime,”  and  better  than  the  one 
that  went  before.  There  are  no  captious  critics  in  his 
audience,  you  may  be  sure ! Little  Nelly  is  nestled  in  his 
arms ; the  dimple  in  her  rosy  cheek  has  ceased  to  play  ; 
the  long  lashes  lay  wearily  over  the  violet  eyes,  and  the 
silver*  locks  of  age  mingle  lovingly  with  childhood’s  sunny 


280 


FERN  GLEN. 


ringlets,  as  her  little  head  droops  on  his  shouldei 
Th^  rest  of  the  merry  troop  all  say,  “ Good-night,  good 
night still  there  sit  Uncle  Peter  and  Nelly.  The  old 
crone  who  has  charge  of  her,  cares  little  how  long  she 
stays  at  Fern  Glen  ; and  the  wretched  father,  in  his  reck- 
lessness, willingly  forgets  the  angel  whose  pure  presence 
is  a living  rebuke  no  his  vices ; so  Uncle  Peter  watches 
the  flush  deepen  on  that  little  cheek,  and  thinks,  dream- 
ily, of  the  past,  and  wishes  he  might  never  part  with  his 
little  treasure. 


Beautiful  as  a poet’s  vision  was  Nelly  on  her  eigh 
teenth  birth-day.  Peter’s  wish  had  been  granted,  — the 
treasure  v as  his.  The  death  of  the  father  had  left  her 
to  the  only  heart  which  loved  her,  and  for  years  she  has 
been  the  sunshine  of  Fern  Glen.  It  was  she  who  placed 
the  arm-chair  under  the  old  elm,  when  the  sun  was 
declining.  It  was  her  round  arm  which  supported  the 
trembling  limbs  of  the  aged  man  to  his  accustomed  rest- 
ing-place. It  was  she  who  smoothed  the  silver  locks  on 
his  aged  temples.  It  was  her  voice,  whose  sweet  carol 
woke  him  to  the  enjoyment  of  another  happy  day.  It  was 
her  hand  which  held  the  cooling  draught  to  his  lips ; and 
there  was  not  a moment  when  his  eye  did  not  linger  with 
a blessing  upon  the  light  figure  that  flitted  like  an  angel 
visitant  before  him. 


FKRN  GLEN. 


28J 


“ And  so  you  will  leave  your  old  uncle,  and  marry  this 
ane  gentleman  ? ” said  old  Peter,  as  he  pushed  back  the 
clustering  hair  from  her  blushing  face. 

“ Never,  never,  dear  uncle ! ” said  the  young  girl,  as 
she  laid  her  rosy  cheek  caressingly  to  his  withered  face. 
“ Naught  but  death  shall  part  thee  and  me  ! 


In  one  corner  of  Fitz  Eoy^s  travelling  carriage  Uncle 
Peter  was  snugly  ensconced  with  his  staff  and  his  snuff- 
box, — the  simple  villagers  crowding  round,  to  take  a 
last  look  of  him  and  “The  Kose  of  Fern  Glen;”  and 
many  a little  brimless  hat  went  up  in  the  air,  as  a fare 
well  salute  to  “ dear  old  Uncle  Peter,  God  bless  him  ! ” 


MINNIE. 

I WISH  I could  extract  the  secret  of  Minnie’s  hap- 
piness,” said  the  languid  Mrs.  Grey,  as  she  lounged 
upon  the  sofa.  “ Such  a world  of  trouble  as  she  has 
had,  first  and  last,  — enough  to  annihilate  a dozen 
women , yei , she  is  quite  embonpoint^  and  always  smil- 
ing and  joyous.  Well  dressed,  — nobody  knows  how. 
— never  troubling  her  head  about  what  this,  or  that, 
or  the  other  person  says ; — flitting  round,  bee-fashion, 
gathering  only  honey.  I declare,  she ’s  beyond  my  pen- 
etration to  sound.  Miss  Prue  Pry  made  a special 
errand  over  there,  the  other  day,  to  tell  her  something 
that  ought  to  have  worried  her  half  to  death ; but  I 
don’t  believe  she  heard  half  she  said  ; or,  if  she  did,  it 
did  n’t  move  her  any.  She  is  contented  anywhere,  while 
I am  ennuyed  to  death.” 

Ah,  Mrs.  Grey,  Minnie  sings  with  the  poet,  “My 
mind  to  me  a kingdom  is ! ” Your  eye  is  quick  to 
detect  a camel’s  hair  shawl,  a mock  diamond,  or  a ruin- 
ous lace.  You  know  the  damage  of  an  upholsterer’s 
permit  to  remodel  and  drapery  your  parlors;  the  very 
last  new  mode  for  toilette  ; who  is,  and  who  is  not,  of 
the  charmed  “ upper  ten,”  and  how  to  graduate  your 


MINNIE. 


259 


bows  accordingly.  You  understand  “ keeping  trades- 
people in  their  proper  place,”  and  never  make  a mistake 
in  selecting  the  shade  of  a silk,  or  a ribbon.  You  were 
brought  up  with  an  eye  to  “ an  establishment,”  and  you 
have  fulfilled  your  destiny ! 

Minnie,  the  happy  Minnie,  lives  in  a world  of  her  own 
creating,  and  peoples  it  to  her  own  taste.  Sunshine  and 
rainbows  come  at  her  bidding.  Poor,  yet  rich  ! “ Her 

mind  to  her  a kingdom  is  ! ” A golden-tinted  cloud,  a 
whispering  zephyr,  a twinkling  star,  a silver  moon-beam, 
a rippling  wave,  a child’s  carol,  a bird’s  song,  a dewy 
flower  ! Behold  Minnie’s  dower  ! 

Ah,  Mrs.  Grey,  you  never  closed  your  world-dazzled 
eyes  to  listen  to  fairy  whispers ; you  never  walked  with 
shadowy  forms  invisible  to  other  eyes ; you  never  heard 
music  inaudible  to  other  ears  ; you  never  shed  deli 
cious,  happy  tears  at  the  magnetic  bidding  of  minstrel 
or  poet ! These  charmed  lines  are  written  in  an  un- 
known tongue  to  you  ! 

“ Take,  0,  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee. 

Take,  I give  it  willingly  ; 

FoTy  invisible  to  thee. 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me  / ” 

And  SO,  smile  on,  joyous  Minnie  ! Your  alchemist 
touch  turns  dross  to  gold.  Your  altar-flame  shall  never 
die  out ; — the  star  you  gaze  at  shall  never  dim.  Sing 
“ Eureka  ! ” Minnie. 


SWEET-BRIAR  FARM. 


“ Bear  father,  I am  so  sick  of  brick  and  mortar 
Have  pity  on  me,  and  exile  me  to  the  woods,  where  I can 
hear  the  birds  sing,  and  catch  a glimpse  of  blue  skies  and 
green  fields.” 

“Can’t  spare  you,  Kitty,”  said  old  Mr.  Kaime. 
“ Who  ’ll  attend  to  my  gouty  old  foot ; and  keep  the 
flies  away  when  I take  my  nap;  and  hand  me  my 
cane  ? And  whom  shall  I lean  on  when  I go  to  walk  ? 
^ And  who  ’ll  read  me  the  newspaper  — politics  and  all  — 
over  my  coffee  ? And  what  will  all  your  lovers  do,  little 
puss  ? ” 

“ Let  her  go,”  chimed  in  dear,  homely,  cheerful  Aunt 
Mary ; “ I ’ll  take  care  of  you.  Let  her  stay  till  she  is 
sick  of  it ; and,  as  to  the  ‘ lovers,’  they  must  take  care  of 
themselves.” 


“ Wife,”  said  Farmer  Moore,  as  he  sat  eating  a huge 
00  wl  of  bread  and  milk  at  the  kitchen  table,  “ I ’ve  had  a 
letter  from  Cousin  Walter,  and  he  wants  his  daughter  \o 
come  and  make  us  a visit.” 


SWEET-BRIAR  FARM. 


285 


“ She  can’t  come,”  said  Mrs.  Moore,  in  a peevish  tone. 

[ hate  these  city  folks,  with  their  thin  shoes  and  fine 
ruanners,  and  flounced  dresses  and  furbelows.  She  d 
set  me  distracted  with  her  airs.  What  did  you  tell 
him?” 

“ I told  him  to  send  her  along,”  said  blunt  old  Uncle 
Tim,  setting  his  bowl  down  with  an  extra  flourish,  as  if 
he  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  on  the  subject. 

Aunt  Betsey  Moore  drew  a long  sigh,  as  if  she  was 
regularly  victimized.  She  was  an  inefficient,  dawdling, 
nervous,  fidgety  woman,  taking  no  interest  either  in 
house  or  farm;  always  fancying  herself  “just  gone” 
with  some  incurable  complaint ; exacting,  peevish  and 
fretful ; making  everybody  as  uncomfortable  as  herself. 
Uncle  Tim  bore  it  like  a philosopher,  availing  himself  of 
every  stray  gleam  of  sunshine  which  shone  across  his 
path,  among  which  Kitty  was  brightest.  His  heart 
turned  to  love,  like  a flower  to  the  sunlight,  and  his 
cheerfulness  brought  its  own  reward.  His  two  sons, 
Jonathan  and  Pete,  had  brought  themselves  up,  and 
were  straight-limbed,  strong-minded,  “ go-ahead  ” speci- 
mens of  Yankeeism,  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  last 
D'Orsay  cravat  tie^  and  quite  benighted  as  to  the  most 
fashionable  cut  for  dress  coats  and  pantaloons ; more 
learned  in  hay-making  than  in  Glreek  and  Latin  ; and 
quite  well  satisfied  with  the  rustic  Yenuses  which  graced 
the  village  church  of  a Sunday.  They  made  it  their  * 


286 


8 W E E T - P K 1 A P A U M . 


home  in  the  kitchen,  year  in  and  year  out,  — A iint  Bet 
sey  having  no  desire  to  superintend  the  sweeping  of 
another  room.  The  “best  parlor”  was  consequently 
given  over  to  its  green  paper  curtains,  and  yellow^ 
wooden  chairs,  except  on  such  time-honored  occasions 
as  Thanksgiving  and  Fourth  of  July,  when  Uncle  Tim 
persisted  in  brushing  dowm  the  cobwebs,  and  letting  in 
a little  daylight. 

Pete  and  Jonathan  were  raking  hay,  in  front  of  the 
house,  when  the  stage  drove  up  with  Kitty.  They  had 
cased  themselves  in  an  impenetrable  armor  of  reserve, 
determined  to  take  as  little  notice  as  possible  of  their 
city  cousin.  Kitty  sprang  lightly  to  the  ground,  and 
Pete,  being  the  boldest  man  of  the  two,  advanced  to  give 
her  a welcome.  There  was  no  withstanding  her  gay, 
good-humored  smile,  and  no  resisting  the  dainty  little 
hand  that  was  extended  to  clasp  his  rough  palm.  Pete’s 
reserve  vanished  in  the  sunshine  of  her  smile ; he  thought 
her  “ a little  the  prettiest  girl  he  ever  saw,”  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  distrusted  his  ability  to  “ make  an 
impression.”  Aunt  Betsey  smiled  a grim  dyspeptic 
welcome,  and  Kitty,  nothing  daunted,  seated  herself  on 
the  kitchen  door-step,  among  a brood  of  chickens,  and 
began  fanning  herself  with  a huge  plantain  leaf.  “ How’ 
very  delicious  this  all  is!”  said  she,  as  the  cool  breeze 
lifted  the  curls  from  her  forehead.  “What  a charmin^^ 
little  brook  that  is  yondoi- ! and  what  a fine  tree!  and,  0 


SWEET-BRIAR  BARM. 


287 


that  must  be  Uncle  Tim  coming  up  the  lane  with  the 
hay-cart!  I do  love  to  ride  on  a hay-cart.”  And 
away  she  bounded  to  meet  him.  Pete  looked  after 
her  in  a sort  of  amazed  bewilderment,  and  wished 
he  was  as  old  as  his  father  when  he  saw  her  kiss  him  ! 
Uncle  Tim  was  delighted  with  his  niece,  and  even  Aunt 
Betsey’s  muscles  began  to  relax  when  Kitty  insisted 
on  turning  out  tea  and  waiting  on  her  uncle.  The 
next  morning  she  Avas  up  with  the  lark,  had  sketched 
the  great  tree  under  the  window,  trained  a stray  rose- 
bush over  the  door-way,  and  taken  a general  survey  of 
the  premises,  including  the  mysterious  “best  parlor.” 

When  Uncle  Tim  came  home,  weary,  to  his  dinner, 
Kitty  handed  him  a glass  of  milk,  cool  and  sweet ; brought 
him  a basin  to  lave  his  hands  and  face,  and  then  drew 
him  gently  toward  the  best  parlor.  What  a metamor- 
phosis ! The  stiff  green  paper  curtains  had  disappeared, 
and  simple  white  muslin  was  gracefully  looped  in  their 
place.  A vase  of  wild  flowers,  exquisitely  arranged, 
stood  on  the  little  table.  A distorted  drawing  of  “ Time 
with  his  scythe  and  hour-glass”  was  skilfully  concealed 
under  a frame  of  evergreen.  The  blinds  were  but  par- 
tially closed,  and  every  breeze  wafted  in  a fragrant 
shower  of  rose-leaves ; and,  better  than  all.  Aunt  Betsey 
sat  in  the  corner,  with  her  knitting  and  footstool  to  her 
mind,  and  something  very  like  her  old  smile  playing 
round  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 


288 


SWEET-BRIAR  FARM. 


“ I wish  we  could  keep  you  here  always,”  said  Uncle 
rim,  as  his  brown  hand  rested  on  her  white  forehead. 
“ You  are  a ray  of  sunshine  yourself!  ” 

“I  never  ’ll  say  any  more  agin  city  folks,”  said  Aunt 
Betsey,  “ except  that  they  are  not  all  like  Kitty.” 

Days  flew  by  like  magic,  and  Kitty  was  here,  and 
there,  and  everywhere ; skimming  the  ground  like  a 
swallow  on  the  wing ; down  in  the  meadow  with  Uncle 
Tim,  “ raking  after ; ” then  in  the  barn  with  Pete,  petting 

t ^ 

the  pony  ; now  in  the  garden  culling  flowers  ; then,  with 
her  dimpled  arms  bare,  preparing  some  little  dainty  “ for 
Uncle  Tim’s  supper.”  Aunt  Betsey  forgot  her  “last 
complaint;  ” the  boys  grew  fond  of  staying  in  the  house, 
and  Kitty  had  a general  admiration  for  everything  on 
the  farm,  down  to  the  speckled  chicken.  Meanwhile,  her 
city  adorers  grew  desperate  at  her  long  absence,  and  one, 
more  determined  than  the  rest,  made  up  his  mind  to  try 
if  his  wooing  would  not  be  more  prosperous  in  the  country 
than  in  the  city.  A shrewd  calculation,  Mr.  Frank  ! 
There  were  ugly,  crooked  stiles  to  be  helped  over ! 
There  were  dim,  fragrant  old  woods  to  traverse,  in 
search  of  wild  flowers  ; there  were  cool,  delicious  sun- 
sets, and  balmy,  still  moonlight  evenings ; and  little 
Miss  Kitty  began  to  think  Frank  had  “ improved  won- 
derfully ; ” and  that  it  would  be  very  ridiculous  for 
her  to  keep  up  stiff  city  manners  at  “ Sweet  Briar 
?arm.”  Uncle  Tim  saw  “which  way  the  wind  blew,” 


8WBET-BEIAR  FARM. 


289 


ab  be  said,  but  wisely  kept  his  own  counsel ; and 
wb<>n  Frank,  proud  and  happy,  drove  off  triumphantly 
with  their  pretty  cousin,  Pete  and  J onathan  both  agreed 
that  very  nice,  warm-hearted  people  might  be  “ raised  ” 
even  in  the  artificial  atmosphere  of  a city. 

M 19 


‘‘THE  ANGEL-CHILD.’^ 


Little  Mabel  had  no  mother.  She  was  slight,  and 
sweet,  and  fragile,  like  her  type,  the  lily  of  the  valley. 
Her  little  hand,  as  you  took  it  in  yours,  seemed  almost  to 
melt  in  your  clasp.  She  had  large,  dark  eyes,  whose 
depths,  with  all  your  searching,  you  might  fail  to  fathom. 
Her  cheek  was  very  pale,  save  when  some  powerful  emo- 
tion lent  it  a passing  flush ; her  fair,  open  brow  might 
have  defied  an  angel’s  scrutiny  ; her  little  footfall  was 
noiseless  as  a falling  snow-flake ; and  her  voice  was  sweet 
and  low  as  the  last  note  of  the  bird  ere  it  folds  its  head 
under  its  wing  for  nightly  slumber. 

The  house  in  which  Mabel  lived  was  large  and 
splendid.  You  would  have  hesitated  to  crush  with 
your  frot  the  bright  flowers  on  the  thick,  rich  carpet. 

ue  rare  old  pictures  on  the  walls  were  marred  by  no 
envious  cross-lights.  Light  and  shade  were  artistically 
disposed.  Beautiful  statues,  which  the  sculptor,  dream- 
inspired,  had  risen  from  a feverish  couch  to  finish,  lay 
bathed  in  the  rosy  light  which  streamed  through  the  silken 
purtains.  Obsequious  servants  glided  in  and  out,  as  if 


‘Tat;  angel-child. 


291 


taught  by  instinct  to  divine  the  unspoken  wants  of  their 
mistress. 

I said  the  little  Mabel  had  no  mother ; and  yet  there 
was  a lady,  fair  and  bright,  of  whose  beautiful  lip,  and 
large,  dark  eyes,  and  graceful  limbs,  little  Mabel’s  were 
the  mimic  counterpart.  Poets,  artists  and  sculptors  had 
sung,  and  sketched,  and  modelled  her  charms.  Nature 
had  been  most  prodigal  of  adornment.  There  was  only 
one  little  thing  she  had  forgotten,  — the  Lady  Mabel  had 
no  soul. 

Not  that  she  forgot  to  deck  little  Mabel’s  limbs  with 
costliest  fabrics  of  most  unique  fashioning.  Not  that 
every  shining  ringlet  on  that  graceful  little  head  was  not 
arranged,  by  Mademoiselle  J enhet,  in  strict  obedience  to 
orders ; not  that  a large  nursery  was  not  fitted  up  luxuri- 
ously at  the  top  of  the  house,  filled  with  toys  which  its 
little  owner  never  cared  to  look  at ; not  that  the  Lady 
Mabel’s  silken  robe  did  not  sweep,  once  a week,  with  a 
queenly  grace  through  the  apartment,  to  see  if  the  mimic 
wardrobe  provided  for  its  little  mistress  fitted  becom- 
ingly, or  needed  replenishing,  or  was  kept  in  order  by 
the  smart  French  maid.  Still,  as  I said  before,  the  little 
Mabel  had  no  mother  ! 

See  her,  as  she  stands  there  by  the  nursery  window, 
crushing  her  bright  ringlets  in  the  palm  of  her  tiny  hand. 
Her  large  eyes  glow  ; her  cheek  flushes,  then  pales  ; now 
the  little  breast  heaves ; for  the  gorgeous  west  is  one  sea 


292 


Tfi£  ANQSL-GHILD. 


of  molten  gold.  Each  bright  tint  thrills  her  with  strange 
rapture.  She  almost  holds  her  breath,  as  they  deepen, 
then  fade  and  die  away.  And  now  the  last  bright  beam 
disappears  behind  the  hills,  and  the  soft,  gray  twilight 
comes  creeping  on.  Amid  its  deepening  shadows,  one 
bright  star  springs  suddenly  to  its  place  in  the  heavens. 
Little  Mabel  cannot  tell  why  the  warm  tears  are  coursing 
down  her  sweet  face ; or  why  her  limbs  tremble,  and  her 
heart  beats  so  fast ; or  why  she  dreads  lest  the  shrill  voice 
of  Mademoiselle  Jennet  should  break  the  spell.  She 
longs  to  soar,  like  a bird,  or  a bright  angel.  She  had  a 
nurse  once,  who  told  her  there  was  a Grod.”  She  wants 
to  know  if  He  holds  that  bright  star  in  its  place.  She 
wants  to  know  if  heaven  is  a long  way  off,  and  if  she 
shall  ever  be  a bright  angel ; and  she  would  like  to  say  a 
little  prayer,  her  heart  is  so  full,  if  she  only  knew  how ; 
but,  poo’  sweet  little  Mabel,  — she  has  no  mofober ! 


NOT  A ‘‘MODEL  MINISTER.^ 


What  a pity  people  will  not  fulfil  their  destiny,  and 
ntuy  in  their  own  proper  niche  in  this  world’s  gallery  ! 
Why  will  they  mistake  their  vocation  ? Now  don’t  think 
this  is  a great  portico  before  a little  building,  for  the  mat- 
ter I am  about  to  speak  of  is  a “ crying  evil.” 

Yesteiday  was  a beautiful  Sunday,  — just  such  a day 
as  makes  one  feel  devotional,  whether  or  no ; — quiet  and 
still,  soft  and  balmy.  Little  children,  — the  flowers  and 
poetry  of  life’s  wayside,  — looking  fresh  and  sweet  as  if 
the  Saviour’s  hands  had  just  blessed  them ; and  fathers 
and  mothers,  forgetting  life’s  cares  and  turmoil,  to  look 
heavenward  ; the  dim,  subdued  light  of  the  time-honored 
chapel ; the  grand,  solemn  voluntary  on  the  organ,  — all 
were  suggestive  and  impressive.  The  clergyman  rose, 
and  read  that  beautiful  hymn,  — 

**  There  is  a land  of  pure  delight.^* 

Shade  of  Watts  ! — how  it  was  murdered  ! Commas, 
semicolons  and  periods,  of  no  account  at  all.  The  per- 
spiration stood  in  drops  on  my  forehead.  I could  have 
rushed  through  the  eye  of  a needle,  had  I as  many  humps 


294 


NOT  A ‘MODEL  MINISTER  ‘ 


on  my  back  as  a camel ! Well,  the  singing  brought  me 
to  a little  ; — rerived  me  in  time  for  a fresh  — crucifix- 
ion ! Why  need  he  have  selected  the  beautiftd  story  of 
the  little  ewe  lamb  ? Such  a sledge-hammer,  wooden 
delivery  ! His  voice  and  right  hand  went  up  and  down 
together,  as  if  they  were  keeping  time  on  a wager.  I 
could  not  stand  it ; — I took  up  the  hymn-book  to  read, 
till  I remembered  that  I should  respect  “ the  Master,” 
though  I might  dislike  the  messenger.  “ 0,  your  heart 
was  not  right ! ” I beg  your  pardon  ; — I started  fair ; 
never  felt  so  good  in  my  life,  till  he  knocked  it  all  in 
the  head  ! 0,  I so  love  beauty  and  harmony  in  every- 

thing ! A very  good,  careful  merchant  was  spoiled  when 
that  black  coat  was  put  on  ; somebody  ought  to  tell  him 
of  it,  — I dare  not ! He  was  as  much  out  of  place  in 
that  pulpit,  as  I should  be  commanding  a ship  of  wai 
0-o-h,  that  hymn  is  ringing  in  my  ears  yet ! 


“MERRY  CHRISTMAS!  -HAPPY 
CHRISTMAS!” 

How  it  flew  from  one  laughing  lip  to  another  ! — trem 
bling  on  the  tongue  of  decrepitude ; lisped  by  prattling 
infancy,  and  falling  lit  j a funeral  knell  on  the  ear  of  the 
grief-stricken ! 

Little,  busy  feet  were  running  to  and  fro,  trumpeting 
the  fame  of  “ good  Santa  Claus.”  The  pretty  blue-eyed 
maiden  blushed,  as  she  placed  her  Christmas  gift  on  the 
betrothal  finger.  Yes,  it  might  have  been  ten  times 
colder  than  it  was,  and  nobody  would  have  known  it, 
everybody’s  heart  was  so  warm. 

See  that  great  house  opposite  ! How  bright  the  fire- 
light falls  on  those  rare  old  pictures ; on  marble,  and 
damask,  and  gold  and  silver  ! Now,  they  are  decking 
a Christmas-tree.  Never  a diamond  sparkled  brighter 
than  those  children’s  eyes.  ’Tis  all  sunshine  at  the 
great  house. 

Kathleen  sits  at  her  low,  narrow  window.  She  sees  it 
all.  There  are  no  pictures  on  her  walls ; though  she  has 
known  the  time  when  they  were  decked  with  the  rarest, 
rhere  is  nothing  there,  now,  that  the  eye  would  look 


296 


MERRT  CHRISTMAS. 


>> 


twice  upon,  save  the  fair,  sad  face  of  its  inmate.  Bui 
it  is  not  of  gilded  splendor  she  is  thinking. 

Last  Christmas  the  wealth  of  a noble  heart  was  laid 
at  her  feet.  Now  she  is  written  widow ! How  brief  a 
word  to  express  such  d far-reaching  sorrow ! Walter 
and  she  were  so  happy.  “ Only  one  voyage  more,  dear 
Katie,  and  then  I will  turn  landsman,  and  stay  with  you 
on  shore and  so  Kathleen  clung,  weeping,  to  his  neck, 
and  bade  him  a silent  farewell.  And  since  | * 

0,  how  wearily  pass  time’s  leaden  footsteps,  to  the  watch 
fill  eye  and  the  listening  ear  of  love ! ‘‘  Her  eyes  were 

with  her  heart,  and  that  was  far  away.” 

Day  after  day  crept  on.  Then  came,  at  last,  these 
crushing  words, — “ All  on  board  perished ! ” 

With  that  short  sentence,  the  light  of  hope  died  out  in 
her  heart,  and  the  green  earth  became  one  wide  sepul- 
chre. The  blight  fell  early  on  so  fair  a flower.  There 
were  many  who  would  gladly  have  lit  again  the  love- 
light  in  those  soft,  blue  eyes;  but  from  all  Kathleen 
turned,  heart-sick,  away  to  her  little,  lonely  room,  to  toil, 
and  dream,  and  weep,  and  pray. 

And  now  the  twilight  has  faded  away,  and  the  holy 
stars,  one  by  one,  have  come  stealing  out,  to  witness  her 
sorrow.  There  she  sits,  with  a filling  eye  and  an  aching 
heart,  and  watches  the  merry  group  yonder.  Life  is  so 
bright  to  them ; so  weary  to  her,  without  that  dear  arm 
to  lean  upon.  Could  she  but  have  pillowed  that  dying 


“MTITIRY  CHRISTMAS. 


297 


»» 


head  ; heard  him  say  but  once  more,  I love  you,  Kath* 
leen.”  But  that  despairing  struggle  with  those  dark, 
billowy  waves ; that  shriek  for  “ help,”  where  no  help 
could  come ; that  strong  arm  and  brave  heart  so  stricken 
down  ! Poor  Kathleen  ? 

Blessed  s’eep  ! — touch  those  sad  eyes  lightly.  Tor 
ture  not  that  troubled  heart  with  mocking  dreams.  See, 
she  smiles ! — a warm  flush  creeps  to  her  cheek,  and  dries 
away  the  tear.  Sleep  has  restored  the  dear  one  to  her 
Dream  on  while  you  may,  sweet  Kathleen  ! 


That  is  the  house,  sir.  God  bless  me,  that  you  should 
be  alive  ! That  one,  sir,  with  the  small  windows.  i>lo 
light  there.  Find  the  way,  sir  ? ” 

Tap,  lap,  on  the  window  ! Kathleen  wakes  from  that 
sweet  dream  to  listen.  She  does  not  tremble,  for  grief 
like  hers  knows  neither  hope  nor  fear.  She  is  soon  appar- 
elled, and,  shading  the  small  lamp  witli  ner  little  hand, 
advances  to  the  door.  Its  flickering  ray  falls  upon  the 
stalwart  form  before  her.  What  is  there  in  its  outline  to 
palsy  her  tongue,  and  blanch  her  cheek  ? This  torturing 
suspense  ! If  the  stranger  would  but  speak  ! 

Kathleen : 

With  one  wild  cry  of  joy,  she  falls  upon  his  neck. 

Ah,  little  Katie  ! Dreams  are  not  always  a mockery 
A merr}’  Christmas  to  you  ' 

M* 


LETA. 


A SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 

“ Be  careful,  dear  father,”  said  Leta,  as  she  smoothed 
the  old  man’s  gray  locks,  and  placed  a little  basket  in  his 
hand.  “ Mind  the  crossings,  — you  are  so  hard  of  hear- 
ing, and  the  streets  are  so  crowded.  If  you  would  but 
wait  till  I get  this  work  done.” 

“ Never  fear,”  said  the  old  man,  taking  his  staff  from 
the  corner ; “I  shall  be  back  before  you  hardly  know 
I ’m  gone.  These  old  limbs  won’t  carry  me  far.  My 
work  is  most  done,  Leta.  I shall  have  my  six  feet  of 
earth  before  long,  and  that ’s  all  the  richest  man  in  the 
land  can  hold  at  the  last.” 


Hurry,  drive  and  bustle ; coaches,  wheelbarrows,  cartr 
and  omnibuses,  dogs  and  children,  ladies  and  shop-girls, 
apprentices  and  masters,  each  one  at  tip-top  speed,  as  if 
they  were  going  to  sign  a quit-claim  to  life  the  next  min- 
ute. Everybody  looking  out  for  number  one,  and  caring 
little  who  jostled  past,  if  their  rights  were  not  infringed. 
V^ery  gay  the  ladies  looked  in  their  rainbow  dresses  ; the 


I E T A . 


299 


little  children’s  cheeks,  pale  with  the  close  air  of  the 
heated  school-room,  flushed  with  delight  at  their  tempo- 
rary emancipation,  and  their  little  owners  were  trying 
the  strength  of  their  respective  lungs  in  a way  that  made 
the  old  man’s  deafness  a very  questionable  affliction.  The 
overtasked  sempstress,  in  her  shabby  little  bonnet,  looked 
on  hopelessly  at  the  moving  panorama.  She  had  become 
habituated  to  brick  pavements  and  Babel  sounds,  an 
aching  side,  weary  eyes  and  a dull,  dead  weight  at  her 
heart ; and  so  she  creeps  home  from  her  daily  task,  — 
home  to  her  gloomy  attic,  to  look  at  the  patch  of  blue 
sky  from  her  roof  window.  Now  and  then  a blade  of 
grass,  that  has  forced  its  way  through  the  brick  pave- 
ments, brings  to  her  mind  the  fragrant  hay-field,  and 
s inny  meadow,  and  dim  old  woods  of  her  country  home  * 
and  she  wonders  if  the  little  wild-flowers  still  grow  in 
their  favorite  nook ; and  if  the  little  brook,  where  she 
bathed  her  feet,  goes  babbling  on  as  musically  as  ever , 
and  if  the  golden  moss  blossoms  out  on  the  rock  clefts , 
and  if  the  wind  makes  sweet  leaf-music  in  the  tall  tree- 
tops  ; and  if  the  bright  sunset  clouds  still  rest  like  a 
glory  on  the  mountain-brow ; and  if  the  little  lake  lies 
like  a sheet  of  silver  in  the  clear  moonbeams ; and  if  her 
old  father  sits  in  the  honeysuckle  porch,  that  the  wind 
may  lift  the  silver  hairs  from  his  heated  temples ; and  if 
her  little  brother  and  sister  still  sit  under  the  old  shady 
oak,  making  tea-sets  of  acorns. 


soo 


L E T A . 


Hurry,  bustle  and  drive  ! — on  they  go,  and  the  little 
sempstress  disappears  around  the  corner  with  the  crowd. 

A shriek,  a shout ! Poor,  old  man  ! — there  he  lies 
under  the  horses’  hoofs,  his  gray  hairs  trampled  in  the 
dust,  struggling,  with  what  strength  he  may,  for  the  rem- 
nant of  his  poor  life.  The  coachman  “was  not  to  blame.’" 
Nobody  is  ever  “ to  blame,”  now-a-days  ! So  he  swore  as 
he  dismounted,  and  dragging  the  old  man,  covered  with 
dust  and  blood,  to  the  side-walk,  jumped  on  his  coach- 
box, cracked  his  whip,  and  thanked  his  stars  it  was 
“ nothing  but  an  old  beggar-man,  whom  nobody  cared 
for.”  And  the  young  physician,  whose  maiden  sign  was 
that  morning  hung  out  the  door,  popped  his  head  out  the 
window,  took  a professional  bird’s-eye  view  of  the  case, 
— sighed,  as  he  returned  to  his  cigar,  that  accidents 
always  seemed  to  happen,  now-a-days,  to  people  from 
whom  one  could  not  get  a fee.  it  was  a case  he  did  not 
feel  called  upon  to  notice.  His  net  was  spread  for 
golden  fish. 


THE  MODEL  STEP-MOTHEK, 


Gratifies  every  childish  desire,  how  injurious  soever, 
or  unreasonable,  and  yet  maintains  the  most  perfect 
government ; — is  perfectly  willing  her  step -children’s 
relatives  should  feed  them  to  surfeiting,  with  pickles, 
preserves,  and  sugar,  — meekly  holding  herself  in  readi- 
ness for  a two  months’  siege  by  a sick-bed  rather  than 
venture  a remonstrance ; — has  no  objection  to  their 
being  stopped  on  the  way  to  school,  by  a self-appointed 
committee  of  Paul  Prys  in  petticoats,  to  pass  an  examin- 
ation as  to  the  fitness  of  their  shoe-strings,  pinafores  and 
satchels ; — always  lets  “ the  children  ” take  papa’s  two 
hands  going  to  church,  and  walks  behind  herself,  if  the 
neighbors  think  best ; — is  quite  charmed  to  welcome  a 
stage-load  of  their  relatives,  who  come  on  a foraging 
expedition,  to  see  “ how  the  dear  children  are  treated ; ” 
— looks  as  sweet  as  a June  morning,  when  she  finds  them 
in  the  kitchen,  lifting  the  covers  off  pots  and  kettles, 
peeping  into  tea-caddies,  and  punching  their  knuckles  into 
the  bread,  “to  see  if  it  has  riz;”  — goes  through  the 
catechism,  without  flinching,  from  the  price  of  brown 
soap  and  the  wages  of  her  cook,  to  the  straw  mat  in  the 


302 


THE  MODEL  STEP- MOTHER. 


entry,  and  the  trimming  on  her  Sunday  gown ; — is  per- 
fectly willing  to  see  them  holding  little,  private  caucuses 
with  the  juveniles,  who  are  keen  enough  to  see  which  way 
they  are  expected  to  answer  ; — shuts  her  own  children 
up  in  a dark  room,  if  they  make  any  objection  to  being 
used  for  a pincushion,  or  to  being  scalped,  one  hair  at 
a time,  by  the  strange  brood ; — after  wearing  herself 
to  a skeleton  trying  to  please  everybody,  has  the  satisfac- 
tion of  hearing  herself  called  a cruel,  hard-hearted 
3tep-mother  ’ ” 


A PAGE  FROM  A WOMAN’S 
HEART; 


OR,  FEMALE  HEROISM. 

“ How  did  you  come  in  possession  of  this  ? ” said  a 
young  man,  directing  the  pawnbroker’s  attention  to  a 
small,  ruby  pin  in  the  show-case. 

' “That?  0,  that  was  brought  here  last  night,  by  a 
pretty ish  young  woman,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a great 
fluster  about  the  money  ; and  so  I bought  it  of  her.” 

“How  did  she  look  ? Had  she  blue  eyes?  Was  she 
tall  and  slender  ? ” 

“ Lord  bless  your  soul ! ” said  the  pawnbroker,  “ I has 
hundreds  of  ’em  in  here  every  day  ; I never  looks  twice 
at  ’em.  She  was  a broken-down  lady,  I reckon.  Some- 
body said  she  lived  up  that  court  yonder.  Like  to  redeem 
the  brooch,  sir  ? '’ 

“ Yes,  certainly,”  said  Ernest;  and,  paying  the  extor- 
tioner five  times  what  he  had  given  for  it,  he  deposited  it 
in  his  vest  pocket. 

“ Good  God  ! that  Agnes  Kearn  should  come  to  this  ! ” 
was  his  first  exclamation  on  reaching  the  street.  “ That 
brooch,  that  I have  seen  sparkle  on  her  snowy  neck  thou 


304  A PAGE  FROM  A WOxMAN’s  HEART; 

sands  of  times,  when  I could  have  kissed  the  very  ground 
her  little  foot  trod  upon  ! Agnes  in  a pawnbroker’s 
shop  ! ” And  he  reeled  and  leaned  for  support  against  a 
jutting  wall  of  the  old  building.  Just  then,  a little  girl 
tripped  past,  and,  striking  her  foot  against  the  curb-stone, 
fell  heavily  against  him.  Ernest  raised  her  in  a moment, 
and  kissing  her  little,  innocent  face,  was  about  releasing 
her,  when  the  thought  struck  him  that  she  might  assist 
him  in  his  search  for  Agnes. 

“ Where  do  you  live,  pretty  one  ? ” said  he,  looking 
into  her  bright  blue  eyes. 

“ I can’t  tell,”  said  the  child,  blushing  ; ‘‘  my  mamma 
bids  me  not  talk  to  strangers.  Won’t  you  please  put  me 
down,  sir  ? ” 

“ Yes,  certainly,”  said  Ernest,  as  he  saw  her  little  lip 
begin  to  quiver  ; “ only  tell  me  your  name  first.” 

“ I can’t  tell,”  said  she  again,  with  a womanly  decision 
that  would  have  amused  him  at  any  other  time.  So, 
putting  her  gently  down  upon  the  pavement,  he  prepared 
to  follow  her  at  a distance.  There  was  something  in  the 
expression  of  her  face  that  interested  him,  — that  re 
minded  him  of  one  he  had  loved,  0,  how  deeply  ! And 
then  he  counted  the  weary  years  that  had  intervened 
since  her  marriage.  Yes ; it  might  be  her  child. 

On  she  went,  little  Minnie,  turning  corner  after  corner, 
with  the  speed  of  an  antelope,  then  disappeared  up  the 


OR,  FEMALE  HEROISM. 


805 


small,  dingy  court,  into  the  doorway  of  a small,  black 
house,  never  once  turning  her  graceful  little  head. 

Ernest  followed ; she  opened  a small  door,  and,  for 
getting  in  her  haste  to  close  it  after  her,  he  heard  her 
say,  — almost  breathless  from  speed  and  agitation,  — “1 
did  n’t  tell  mamma ; I did  n’t  tell.  The  gentleman 
asked  me  my  name,  and  where  I lived ; but,  — kiss  me, 
mamma,  — I certainly  did  n’t  tell  him.” 

“ Dear  child,”  said  the  mother,  as  she  gave  her  a 
Kiss. 

That  voice  ! there  was  but  one  in  the  wide  world  that 
could  so  thrill  him. 

“ 0,  mamma,  here  he  is!  ” said  Minnie,  as  she  tried  to 
close  the  door.  “ I certainly  did  n’t  tell  him,”  and  she 
began  to  sob  piteously. 

“ Agnes  ! Ernest ! ” They  were  simple  words  to  con- 
vey so  much  meaning  ! “ Your  husband,  Agnes,  is  he 

dead  ? Why  do  I find  you  here  ? ’ She  shook  her  head, 
and  turned  deadly  pale. 

“ What  then  ? ” said  Ernest,  drawing  himself  up  as  if 
he  were  already  called  upon  to  protect  her. 

“ Dead  to  me,”  said  Agnes,  in  a low  voice. 

Ernest  took  from  his  pocket  the  small  brooch.  “ You 
must  have  suffered  much,  ere  you  would  have  parted  with 
this,  Agnes.  It  has  told  me  a silent  tale  of  misery,  that 
I will  not  pain  your  heart  to  echo.  I ask  you  not  of 

him.  It  is  enough  for  me,  that  he  is  living,  while  you 

20 


306  A PAGE  PROM  A WOMAN’S  HEART; 

are  sulFering  here.  I will  not  curse  him  in  your  pres- 
ence ; but,  Agnes,  you  must  give  me  the  right  of  an  old 
friend  to  care  for  you ; you  must  leave  this  wretched 
place ; ” and  he  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  the  miserable 
surroundings. 

“ Your  father,  Agnes ! dpes  he  know  of  this  ? Is 
money  still  his  god  ? ” 

Agnes  replied  only  by  her  tears. 

“ Tell  me,  — how  have  you  lived  ? ’’  said  Ernest. 

She  pointed  to  a small  escritoire  in  the  corner  of  the 
room. 

“ Slow  starvation  ! ” said  he  contemptuously.  “ This  is 
folly,  Agnes.  Just  look  at  your  position ; deserted,  from 
avaricious  motives,  by  those  who  should  rally  around  you 
in  your  hour  of  trial ; wasting  your  youth  and  health  in 
humbling  yourself  for  employment  to  those  who  can 
neither  understand  your  position  nor  appreciate  yourself. 
Agnes,  give  me,  — if  I may  claim  no  dearer  title,  — a 
brother’s  right  to  provide  and  care  for  you.” 

Agnes  Kearn  rose  from  her  chair,  pale,  but  calm. 
“ Listen  to  me,  Ernest.  What  I have  been,  you  know ; 
what  I am  now,  by  God’s  dark  providence,  you  see. 
That  I have  suffered  more  keenly  than  even  you,  who 
read  my  heart  so  well,  can  dream,  I acknowledge. 
Nothing  that  meets  my  eye  here  that  is  not  coarse 
and  repulsive.  I have  deprived  myself  of  food,  that 
my  child  might  not  hunger.  I have  toiled  till  mom- 


OE,  FEMALE  HEROISM. 


307 


ing  for  my  daily  bread.  I have  no  earthly  father  save 
in  name ; but  through  all  this,  Ernest,  I have*  main- 
tained my  self-respect,  and  I would  rather  die  than  take 
one  dollar,  even  as  a loan,  from  you.  Nay,  hear  me 
out,”  said  she,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  as  he 
strode  impatiently  across  the  room.  ‘‘  This  poor,  weary 
heart  is  tried  and  tasked  to  the  utmost.  Like  Noah’s 
dove,  it  finds  no  resting-place.  Nay,  spare  your  re- 
proaches, and  be  generous.  Think  you  it  costs  that 
heart  nothing  to  turn  coldly  away,  and  say  Nay?”  and 
her  voice  trembled,  and  her  eyes  filled.  ‘‘  Ernest,  my 
heart  may  not  echo  back  your  words  of  kindness ; the 
love  that  is  born  of  sorrow  is  strong,  and  wild,  and  deep. 
Leave  me,  Ernest.  Do  not  deceive  yourself ; it  is  not  a 
brother’s  heart  you  offer  me.  I must  toil  on,  unaided  by 
you.  The  night  has  been  long,  tedious  and  starless  ; the 
morning  must  dawn  ere  long.  I will  wait  and  trust.  If 
£ forsake  not  myself,  Grod  will  not  forsake  me.” 

“Once  more,  — shall  I leave  you,  Agnes  ?”  said  the 
young  man,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

“ God  wills  it,”  was  her  low  reply. 

The  door  closed  upon  Ernest’s  retreating  figure  ; then 
her  woman’s  heart  gave  way.  Covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  she  wept  long  and  bitterly ; then  came  a holy 

calm,  — a peace  which  only  those  may  know  who  are 

0 

self-conquerors. 

And  where  was  that  “earthly  father?”  He  ate  and 


308  A PAGE  FROM  A WOMAN’S  HEART, 

drank  and  slept,  careless  who  befriended  his  child ; 
careleas  of  the  more  than  mortal  strength  she  needed  to 
keep  that  warm  and  tried  heart  from  yielding  to  the  pres- 
sure of  poverty,  temptation  and  despair.  “ Like  as  « 
father  pitieth  his  children  ” were  unmeaning  words  to 
ooor  Agnes, 


“ This  is  a very  correct  translation,”  said  the  pedantic 
Professor  Boggs ; “ very  well  done,  madam ; could  n’t 
have  done  better  myself ; and  that ’s  the  highest  praise  I 
can  bestow  upon  it.  I suppose  you  expect  to  be  well 
paid  for  it,  like  all  the  rest  of  our  applicants  for  this  sort 
o’  thing.” 

“ I need  all  you  can  give  me,”  said  Agnes,  dejectedly  * 
“ it  has  cost  me  a week  of  unremitting  labor.” 

“ V-e-r-y  p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e,”  said  the  professor,  looking  at 
her  through  his  glasses ; “I’m  lold  you  are  the  daughter 
of  old  Mr.  Kearn  ; he  is  a man  who  is  well  off ; how  came 
you  to  be  reduced  to  this  extremity  ? ” (Cruel,  avari- 
cious father  ! the  dagger  again  driven  home  to  that  suf- 
fering heart  by  your  neglectful  hand !) 

Agnes  replied,  “ You  will  excuse  me,  sir,  from  enter- 
ing into  the  details  of  my  private  history.  If  the 
translation  pleases  you,  I shall  be  happy  to  dispose  of 
t ; if  not,  I must  look  elsewhere.” 

Mr.  Boggs  returned  it,  with  a stately  bow.  Agncs 


OR,  FEMALE  HEROISM  30^ 

found  her  way  into  the  open  air.  The  excitement  of  hex 
interview  with  Ernest,  fasting  and  fatigue,  “told’’  at 
last.  Her  steps  became  unsteady,  her  sight  failed  her , 
she  reeled,  and  fell  upon  the  pavement. 

“ Drunk ! ” said  one  of  the  bystanders,  with  a sneer. 

“ A fallen  angel ! ” said  another. 

“ Take  her  to  the  watch-hotise,”  said  a third. 

“ Here,  little  girl,”  said  a rowdy  lad,  seizing  a child, 
who  seemed  quite  bewildered  by  the  crowd,  “ don’t  you 
want  to  get  a sight  of  the  drunken  woman  ? ” 

“No,  no,”  said  the  child,  struggling  to  free  herself  as 
he  lifted  her  above  their  heads ; then,  with  a piercing 
shriek,  as  her  eye  fell  on  the  prostrate  form,  “ 0,  it  is 
my  mamma  ! my  own  dear  mamma ! she ’s  dead ! my 
mamma  is  dead  ! ” and  making  her  way  to  her  side,  she 
kissed  her  pale  lips,  and  sobbed,  and  clung  to  her  neck, 
till  there  was  not  a dry  eye  in  the  crowd. 

“ Mr.  Kearn,”  said  a little,  dapper  man,  as  he  touched 
that  gentleman’s  gold-headed  cane,  “ do  you  see  that 
crowd  yonder  ? ” 

“Yes  — yes  — what  of  it?  A crowd  is  nothing. 
What  of  it  ? ” 

“Nothing  in  particular,  — only  they  are  looking  at 
your  daughter  Agnes,  who  has  fainted  from  fasting  and 
hard  work ; and  your  little  grandchild  is  sobbing  ove 
her  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Now,  look  here,  sir  ! I 
respect  gray  hairs  ; but  if  it  was  n’t  for  that,  I would  call 


3l0  A PAGE  FROM  A WOMAN  S HEART. 

you  (what  your  Bible  calls  those  who  fail  to  provide  foi 
their  own  households)  ‘ worse  than  an  infidel ! ’ Now 
I am  a rich,  childless  old  man,  and  I ’m  going  to  take  her 
off  your  hands.  She  told  my  nephew,  Ernest,  when  she 
nobly  refused  his  assistance,  that  ‘ if  she  did  not  forsake 
herself,  Grod  would  not  forsake  her — and  He  has  not ! 
She  is  my  daughter  from  this  day,  sir,  and  may  God 
forgive  your  avarice  ’ 


LITTLE  MAi. 


I WONDER  WOO  made  God  ? Mamma  don’t  know.  I 
thought  mamma  knew  everything.  The  minister  don’t 
know,  because  I asked  him.  I wonder  do  the  angels 
know  ? I wonder  shall  I know,  when  I go  to  heaven  ? ” 
Dear  little  May ! Sue  looked  like  an  angel  then,  as 
she  stood  under  the  linden-tree,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  far-ofi*  sky,  and  the  sunlight  falling  on  that  golden 
hair,  till  it  shone  like  a glory  round  her  head.  You 
would  have  loved  our  little  May,  — not  because  her  face 
had  such  a pensive  sweetness  in  it,  or  that  her  step  was 
light  as  a fawn’**  or  her  little  limbs  so  gracefully 
moulded,  — but  because  her  heart  was  full  of  love  foi 
every  living  thing  which  God  had  made.  One  day  1 
rambled  with  her  in  the  wood.  She  had  gathered  her 
favorite  flowers,  — the  tiniest  and  most  delicate  ; — 
the  air  was  full  of  music,  and  the  breeze  laden  with  fra- 
grance ; the  little  birds  were  not  happier  than  we.  Lit- 
tle May  stood  still ; her  large  eyes  grew  moist  with  happy 
tears,  and,  dropping  her  little  treasures  of  moss,  leavea 
and  flowers,  at  my  feet,  she  said,  “ Dear  Fanny,  let  me 
pray.” 


512 


LITTLE  M A t . 


She  knew  that  the  good  God  scattered  all  this  beautj? 
so  lavishly  about  us,  and  she  could  not  enjoy  it  without 
thanking  Him.  Dear  little  May  ! we  listen  in  vain  for 
her  voice  of  music  now. 

**  The  cnurcn-yard  hatn  an  adaea  scone. 

And  Heaven  one  spirit 


« 


“THE  BEST  OF  MEN  HAVE 
THEIR  FAILINGS.’’ 

1 WISH  I could  ever  take  up  a paper  that  endorsed 
liberal  sentiments.  I ’ve  always  warped  to  the  opinion 
that  good  men  were  as  safe  as  homoeopathic  pills.  You 
don’t  suppose  they  ever  patronize  false  words  or  false 
weights,  false  measures  or  false  yardsticks  ? You  don’t 
suppose  they  ever  slander  their  neighbors  after  making  a 
long-winded  exhortation  in  a vestry  meeting  ? You  don’t 
suppose  they  ever  lift  their  beavers  to  a long  purse,  and 
turn  their  backs  on  a thread-bare  coat  ? You  don’t  sup- 
pose they  ever  bestow  a charity  to  have  it  trumpeted  in 
the  newspapers?  You  don’t  suppose,  when  they  trot 
devoutly  to  meeting  twice  a day  on  Sunday,  that  they 
overhaul  their  ledgers  in  the  intermission  ? You  don’t 
suppose  they  ever  put  doubtful-looking  bank  bills  in  the 
contribution  box  ? You  don’t  suppose  they  ever  pay 
their  minister’s  salary  in  consumptive  hens  and  damaged 
turkeys  ? I wish  people  were  not  so  uncharitable  and 
suspicious.  It  disgusts  me  with  human  nature. 

Now,  if  I once  hear  a man  make  a prayer,  that ’g 
enough  said.  After  that,  Gabriel  could  n’t  make  me 


814 


MEN  H A V K T H K T R F A f I.  I N G S . 


believe  he  was  a sinner.  If  his  face  is  of  an  orthodox 
length,  and  his  creed  is  dyed  in  the  wool,  I consider  him 
a prepared  subject  for  the  undertaker.  If  his  toes  are 
on  an  evangelical  plat&rm,  I am  morally  certain  his  eyes 
never  will  goon  a “fool’s  errand.”  If  he  has  a proper 
reverence  for  a church  steeple,  I stake  my  life  on  it,  bis 
conduct  will  be  perpendicular.  I should  be  perfectly 
willing  to  pin  my  faith  on  his  sleeve  till  the  final  convsuio- 
mation  of  all  things.  Yes,  I’ve  the  most  unswerving, 
indestructible,  undying  confidence  in  any  man  who  owns^ 
a copy  of  Watts’  Psalms  and  Hymns.  Such  a man  never 
trips,  or,  if  he  does,  you  never  catch  him  at  %t  I 


NICODEMUS  NEY. 


A DASH  AT  A CHARACTER  WHOM  EVERYBODY 
HAS  SEEN. 

Mr.  Nicodemus  Ney  is  a philanthropist,  — so  the 
world  says;  (and  I,  as  in  duty  bound,  have  a great 
respect  for  the  opinion  of  the  world;)  that  is,  he  goes 
about  collecting  ninepences  and  half-dollars  from  poor, 
overtasked  servant  girls,  and  half-fed  clerks,  for  the 
founding  of  “ charitable  institutions  ” for  all  sorts  of  dis- 
tressed persons,  who  never  knew  what  an  unfortunate 
situation  they  were  in,  until  he  told  them. 

How  much  of  the  money  thus  obtained  is  paid  out  for 
the  purpose  specified  is  “ nothing  to  nobody  ! ” He  often 
takes  long  journeys  to  Niagara,  and  other  places  of 
fashionable  resort ; but  it  would  be  very  malicious  “ to 
put  that  and  that  together.”  Some  of  the  donors,  too, 
are  occasionally  impertinent  enough  to  inquire,  point 
blank,  what  has  become  of  their  funds ! As  if  a man 
who  belongs  to  the  church,  wears  such  a long  face,  forti- 
fied with  such  a white  and  stiff  cravat,  makes  such  long 
prayers,  and  has  such  a narrow  creed,  could  be  anything 
but  the  quintessence  of  honesty ! It  is  astonishing  how 


816 


NICODBMUS  NET. 


suspicious  and  impertinent  some  people  are ! Beside, 
don’t  Nicodemus  dine  once  a week  with  the  Hon.  Dives 
Doncaster  ? And  is  he  not  always  on  the  platform  on  all 
public  occasions,  as  solemn  as  an  owl,  alongside  of  the 
other  great  guns?  You  can  see,  with  half  an  eye,  that 
suspicion  of  him  is  perfectly  ridiculous. 

Should  Mr.  Nicodemus  Ney  sit  toasting  his  feet  at  the 
fire,  after  a surfeiting  dinner,  and  should  a poor,  down- 
trodden creature  come  in  for  relief,  you  could  not  expect 
him  to  disturb  his  digestion  by  attending  to  such  a petty 
case  of  distress.  He  is  a great  man,  and  only  does  things 
on  a large  scale,  — on  a scale  that  will  tell ! Beside,  it 
is  his  forte  to  draw  money  out  of  people’s  pockets,  not  to 
put  it  in. 

Very  circumspect  is  Nicodemus.  It  would  puzzle  you 
to  keep  track  of  any  of  his  personal  or  domestic  expendi- 
tures ; all  his  bargains  are  strictly  “private,”  and  he  was 
never  known  to  answer  the  simplest  question  without  first 
doubling  Cape  Look-out ! Is  he  attacked  ? He  goes 
whining  to  “Dives;”  and  I would  like  to  see  any  dog 
bark  when  a rich  man  tells  him  to  hold  his  tongue. 

And  so  Nicodemus  grows  fatter  and  sleeker  every 
year,  keeping  wrinkles  and  rumors  at  bay.  The  poor 
draw  a long,  hopeless  sigh  as  he  passes  them,  and  the 
uninitiated  touch  their  hats  respectfully,  and  say,  “It  if 
Nicodemus  Ney,  the  great  philanthropist ! ” 


ADVICE  TO  LADIES. 


When  the  spirit  moves  you  to  amuse  yourself  with 
“ shopping/’  be  sure  to  ask  the  clerk  for  a thousand-and- 
one  articles  you  have  no  intention  of  buying.  Never 
mind  about  the  trouble  you  make  him ; that ’s  part  of  the 
trade.  Pull  the  fingers  of  the  gloves  you  are  examining 
quite  out  of  shape  ; inquire  for  some  nondescript  color,  or 
some  scarce  number,  and,  when  it  is  found,  “ think  you 
won’t  take  any  this  morning;”  then,  keep  him  an  hour 
hunting  for  your  sun-shade,  which  you,  at  length,  recol- 
lect you  “ left  at  home and  depart  without  having 
invested  a solitary  cent. 

When  you  enter  a crowded  lecture-room,  and  a gentle- 
man rises  politely,  — as  American  gentlemen  always  do, 
— and  offers  to  give  up  his  seat,  — which  he  came  an  hour 
ago  to  secure  for  himself,  — take  it,  as  a matter  of 
course ; and  don’t  trouble  yourself  to  thank  him,  even 
with  a nod  of  your  head.  As  to  feeling  uneasy  about 
accepting  it,  that  is  ridiculous ! because,  if  he  don’t  fancy 
standing  during  the  service,  he  is  at  liberty  to  go  home ; 
it  is  a free  country ! 

When  you  enter  the  cars^  and  all  the  eligible  places 


318 


A.DVICE  TO  LADIEir:. 


are  occupied,  select  one  to  your  mind  ; then  walk  up  to 
the  gentleman,  who  is  gazing  at  the  fine  scenery  through 
the  open  window,  and  ask  him  for  it,  with  a queenly  air, 
as  if  he  would  lose  caste  instanter,  did  he  hesitate  to 
comply.  Should  any  persons  seat  themselves  near  you, 
not  exactly  of  “ your  stamp,”  gather  up  the  folds  of  your 
dress  cautiously,  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  contagion,  and 
apply  a “ vinaigrette  ” to  your  patrician  nose  ! 

Understand,  thoroughly,  the  dexterous  use  of  a sun- 
shade, in  enabling  you  to  avoid  the  infliction  of  a “bore,’’ 
or  an  ‘‘unpresentable  person,”  in  the  street;  avoiding 
under  that  shield,  the  unladylike  impropriety  of  the  “ cut 
direct,”  — allowable  only  in  cases  of  undisguised  imper 
tinence. 

Should  you  receive  an  invitation  to  a concert,  manage 
to  accept  it,  — conditionally ; — leaving  a door  to  escape, 
should  a more  eligible  offer  present  itself. 

When  solicited  to  sing  at  a party,  decline,  until  you 
have  drawn  around  you  the  proper  number  of  entreating 
swains ; then  yield  gracefully,  as  if  it  were  a great  sacri- 
fice of  your  timidity. 

Flirt  with  an  admirer  to  the  last  end  of  the  chapter, 
and  then  “be  so  taken  by  surprise”  when  he  makes  the 
declaration  you  were  driving  at ! As  “ practice  makes 
perfect,”  every  successful  attempt  of  this  nature  will 
render  you  more  expert  at  angling  for  hearts,  besides 
exerting  a evry  beneficial  effect  upon  your  character. 


ADVICE  TO  LADIES. 


819 


As  to  cultivating  your  mvjd,  that  is  all  waste  powder  ; 
you  have  better  ammunition  to  attack  the  enemy ; and  as 
to  cultivating  your  heart,  there  is  no  use  in  talking  about 
a thing  that  is  unfashionable  ! So,  always  bear  in  mind 
that  all  a pretty  woman  fa  sent  into  the  world  for,  is  to 
display  the  fashions  as  they  come  out ; waltz,  flirt,  dance 
aing,  and  play  the  mischief  generally  ! 


THE  MODEL  WIDOW 


Would  not  wear  her  veil  up,  on  any  account ; — thinKa 
her  complexion  looks  fairer  than  ever,  in  contrast  with 
her  sables ; — sends  back  her  new  dress,  bee  «iuse  the  fold 
of  crape  on  the  skirt  “ is  not  deep  mourning  enough ; ” — 
steadfastly  refuses  to  look  in  the  direction  of  a “ dress 

coat  ” for one  week  ! — wonders  if  that  handsome 

Tompkins,  who  passes  her  window  every  day,  is  insane 
enough  to  think  she  will  ever  marry  again ; — is  fond  of 
drawing  off  her  glove,  and  resting  her  little,  white  hand 
on  her  black  bonnet,  thinking  it  may  be  suggestive  of  an 
early  application  for  the  same  ; — concludes  to  give  up 
the  loneliness  of  house-keeping,  and  try  boarding  at  a 
hotel ; — accepts  Tompkins’  invitation  to  “ attend  the  chil- 
dren’s concert,”  just  to  please  little  Tommy.  Tommy 
is  delighted,  and  thinks  Tompkins  “ a very  kind  gentle- 
man,” to  give  him  so  much  candy  and  so  many  bon-bons. 
His  mamma  begins  to  admit  certain  alleviations  of  her 
sorrow,  in  the  shape  of  protracted  conversations,  walks, 
rides,  calls,  &c.  She  cries  a little,  when  Tommy  asks  her 
if  she  has  not  “ forgotten  to  plant  the  flowers  ” in  a cer- 
tain cemetery.  Tompkins  comes  in,  and  thinks  her  love- 


THE  AlODEL  WIDOW. 


321 


her  than  ever,  smiling  through  her  tears.  Tommy  is  sent 
out  into  the  garden,  to  make  “ pretty  dirt  pies,’'  — 
to  the  utter  demolition  of  a new  frock  and  trousers,  — 
and  returns  very  unexpectedly,  to  find  his  mamma’s 
cheeks  very  rosy,  and  to  be  tossed  up  in  the  air  by 
Tompkins,  who  declares  himself  “his  new  papa.'’ 


THlv  MODEL  WIDOWER 


Begins  to  tb7»ik  of  No.  2 before  the  v/eed  on  nis  hat  bses 
its  first  gloss ; — may  be  seen  assisting  young  girls  to  find 
a seat  in  church,  or  ordering  carts  off  dry  crossings,  for 
pretty  feet  that  are  waiting  to  pass  over ; — is  convinced 
he  “never  was  made  to  live  alone;’’ — his  “children 
must  be  looked  after,”  or,  if  he  has  not  any,  he  would  like 
to  be  looked  after  — himself ; — draws  a deep  sigh  every 
time  a dress  rustles  past,  with  a female  woman  in  it ; — is 
very  particular  about  the  polish  of  his  boots  and  the  fit 
of  his  gloves ; — thinks  he  looks  very  interesting  in  black ; 

— don’t  walk  out  in  public  much  with  his  children  ; when 
he  does,  takes  the  youngest ; — revives  his  old  taste  for 
moonlight  and  poetry  ; — pities  single  men  with  all  his 
heart ; wonders  how  they  contrive  to  exist ! — reproves 
little  John  for  saying  “ Pa”  so  loud,  when  he  meets 
him  in  the  street ; — sets  his  face  against  the  practice  of 
women’s  going  home  “ alone  and  unprotected  ” from  even- 
ing meeting ; — tells  the  widows  his  heart  aches  for  them 

— wonders  which,  of  all  the  damsels  he  sees,  he  shall  make 
up  his  mind  to  marry  ; — is  sorry  he  shall  be  obliged  to 
disappoint  them  all  but  one  ! — has  loug  siuce  preferred 


THE  MODEL  WIDOWER. 


orange-blossoms  to  the  cypress- wreath ; — starts  up,  somo 
line  day,  and  refurnishes  his  house  from  garret  to  cellar 
— hangs  his  first  wife’s  portrait  in  the  attic,  — shrouded 
in  an  old  blanket,  — and  marries  a playmate  for  his  oldest 
daughter 


THE  TEAR  OF  A WIFE 


“ The  tear  of  a loving  girl  is  like  a dew-drop  on  a rose  ; but  on  the 
sheek  of  a wife,  is  a drop  of  poison  to  her  husband.” 

It  is  “ an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  any  good.’* 
Papas  will  be  happy  to  hear  that  twenty-five  dollar 
pocket-handkerchiefs  can  be  dispensed  with  now,  in  the 
bridal  trousseau.  Their  “ occupation ’s  gone  ” ! Matri- 
monial tears  “ are  poison.”  There  is  no  knowing  what 
you  will  do,  girls,  with  that  escape-valve  shut  off ; but 
that  is  no  more  to  the  point,  than  — whether  you  have 
anything  to  smile  at  or  not ; one  thing  is  settled  — you 
must  not  cry ! Never  mind  back-aches,  and  side-aches, 
and  head-aches,  and  complaints,  and  smoky 

chimneys,  and  old  cou  ..  pMBfcnng  babies  ! Smile  ! It 
fiatters  your  husband.  He  Wants  to  be  consider  3d  the 
source  of  your  happiness,  whether  he  was  baptized  Nero 
or  Moses  ! Your  mind  never  being  supposed  to  be  occu- 
pied with  any  other  subject  than  himself,  of  course  a tear 
is  a tacit  reproach.  Besides,  you  miserable  little  whim- 
perer ! what  have  you  to  cry  for  ? A-i-n-t  y-o-u  m-a-r- 
r-i-e-d  ? Is  n’t  that  the  summum  honum^  — the  height 
of  feminine  ambition?  ITou  can’t  get  beyond  that  I It 


THE  TEAR  OP  A WIPE. 


325 


18  the  jumping-off  place  ! You  ’ve  arriv ! — got  to  the 
end  of  your  journey  ! Stage  puts  up  there  ! You  have 
nothing  to  do  but  retire  on  your  laurels,  and  spend  the 
rest  of  your  life  endeavoring  to  be  thankful  that  you  are 
Mrs.  John  Smith  ! Smile  ^ ” vou  timpleton  ! 


EDITOES. 


We  know  of  no  siaie  of  slavery  on  earth  like  that  attendant  upon 
the  newspaper  life,  whether  it  be  as  director  or  subordinate.  Your 
task  never  ended,  your  responsibility  never  secured,  the  last  day’s 
work  is  forgotten  at  the  close  of  the  day  on  which  it  appeared,  and  the 
dragon  of  to-morrow  waits  open-mouthed  to  devour  your  thoughts,  and 
snap  up  one  morsel  more  of  your  vexed  existence.  Be  as  successful  as 
is  the  nature  of  things  to  be  ; — write  with  the  least  possible  degree  of 
exertion  , — be  indifferent  to  praise,  and  lion-hearted  against  blame  ; 
— still  will  the  human  heart  wear  out  before  its  time,  and  your  body, 
if  not  your  mind,  exhibit  every  symptom  of  dry  rot.  — Newspaper » 

“ Dry  ” fiddlestick ! That  man’s  dinner  did  not 
digest ; or  the  wind  was  “ dead  east or  his  wife  had 
astonished  him  with  a pair  of  twins ; or  his  boots  pinched 
him. 

I will  wager  you  a new  neck-tie  that  he  is  one  of  the 
cross-grained  sort,  who  would  go  to  fisticuffs  with  Gabriel 
and  raise  a rebellion  in  Paradise.  There  is  not  a word  of 
truth  in  what  he  says.  I have  been  behind  the  curtain, 
and  I will  speak  this  time ! I tell  you  that  editors  are 
just  the  fattest,  sleekest,  happiest,  most  rolicksome,  the 
cleverest,  brightest,  most  intelligent  and  lovable  set  of 
humans  in  existence ; and  the  only  reason  they  don’t 


EDITORS  . 


827 


‘ own  up,”  is  because  they  are  afraid  to  let  the  world  in 
general  know  how  many  little  favors  and  perquisites  fall 
to  their  lot ! 

They  go  down  to  the  office  in  the  morning,  — after  a 
careful  toilette  and  a comforting  breakfast,  — make  up  a 
fire  in  the  stove  hot  enough  to  roast  an  Icelander,  ‘‘  her- 
metically seal  ” every  door  and  window,  put  on  a pair  of 
old  slippers,  light  a cigar,  draw  up  a huge  easy-chair, 
stick  their  feet  up  twice  as  high  as  their  heads,  and  ~ 
proceed  to  business  (?) ; that  is  to  say,  between  the 
whiffs  of  that  cigar  they  tell  excruciatingly  funny  stories, 
poke  each  other  in  the  ribs,  agree  to  join  the  mutual 
admiration  society,  retail  all  the  “ wire-pulling  ” behind 
the  scenes,  calculate  which  way  the  political  cat  is  going 
to  jump,  and  shape  the  paragraphs  accordingly  ; — tell 
who  threw  that  huge  bouquet,  at  last  night’s  concert,  to 
Madam  Fitz  Humbug ; — shake  hands,  and  make  room  for 
all  the  “ hale-fellows-well-met  ” that  drop  in  to  see  them ; 
— keep  their  intellects  sharpened  up  by  collision  with 
the  bright  and  gifted,  — in  short,  live  in  one  perpetual 
clover-field,  and  when  they  die,  all  the  newspapers  write 
nice  little  obituary  notices,  and  give  them  a free  pass  to 
Paradise.  I would  like  to  know  if  that  looks  like  a 

vexed  existence  ? ” 

Time  would  fail  me  to  tell  of  the  wedding-cake,  and 
flowers,  and  fruits,  and  annuals,  embroidered  purses  and 
tasselled  smoking-caps,  pretty  little  notes,  braided  watch 


828 


EDITORS. 


chains,  the  handkerchiefs  they  get  perftuned  and  gloves 
mended,  — for  nothing  ! 

How  everybody  nudges  his  neighbor,  when  they  appear 
at  lecture,  or  concert,  or  opera,  and  says,  “ There ’s  that 
clever  fellow,  the  editor  of  The  Comet ! ” How  he  has  a 
season-ticket  to  a free  seat  by  a Frog  Pond ; how  he  has, 
— but  there  is  no  use  in  telling  all  a body  knows ! 
Christopher  Columbus!  Editor’s  life  a “vexed  exist 
ence ! ” 

« Let  those  laugh  now  who  never  laughed  befoio. 

And  those  who  alwav*  ^‘WMrhed  now  laugh  the  more-^’ 


BACHELOR  HOUSEKEEPING. 


Mr.  Brown.  — Pray,  Jane,  what  on  earth  is  the  reason  I am  Kept 
waiting  for  my  breakfast  in  this  way  1 

Jane.  — Please,  sir,  the  rolls  is  n’t  come,  and  there ’s  no  bread  in  th<» 
house. 

Mr.  Brown.  — Now,  upon  my  word  ! How  can  you  annoy  me  with 
such  trifles  1 No  bread  ! then  bring  me  some  toast.  {Exit  Jane  w 
dismay.) 

I THINK  I see  him ! Bagged  dressing-gown ; beard 
two  days  old ; depressed  dickey ; scowling  face ; out 
at  elbows,  out  of  sorts,  and  — out  of  “ toast ! ” Poor 
thing ! Don’t  the  sight  make  my  heart  ache  ? How 
should  he  be  expected  to  know  that  bread  was  the  fore 
runner  of  toast,  without  a wife  to  tell  him  ? 

Bachelors  never  cut  their  “ wisdom  teeth ! ” It  is 
astonishing  how  people  can  make  themselves  merry  at 
their  expense.  I consider  their  case  calls  for  the  deepest 
commiseration.  It  is  not  toast  they  want,  — it  is  a 
wife ! Toast  will  naturally  follow,  — and  in  fine  ordei , 
too ! But,  bless  your  soul ! the  poor  creatures  don’t 
know,  half  the  time,  what  ails  them.  They  have  a gen- 
eral undefined  feeling  of  discomfort  which  they  cannot 
account  for ; never  can  find  their  wint^i  or  summer 


330  BACHELOR  HOUSEKEEPING. 

clothes  when  they  want  them  ; moths  eat  up  all  their 
woollens ; the  washerwoman  ruins  their  flannels,  — let- 
ting them  soak  in  the  water,  — scorches  their  Sunday 
dickey,  and  irons  off  their  shirt-buttons ; stockings  get 
mis-mated;  — if  you  pulled  off  their  boots,  you  would 
find  they  were  — “ Odd  Fellows ! ” Silk  neck-ties  want 
hemming ; when  they  run  their  arm  into  a coat-sleeve 
it  gets  tangled  in  a ragged  lining ; lose  their  porte- 
monnaies,  because  the  day-light  shines  through  their 
pockets ; fingers  all  peeping  out  their  gloves  ; miss  half 
their  duds,  moving  from  one  boarding-house  to  another ; 
chamber-maids  thumb  their  nice  books  with  greasy 
fingers,  use  all  their  Cologne,  and  make  acquaintance 
with  their  head  and  tooth  brush ; let  all  their  letters  and 
notes,  — everything  but  their  tailor’s  bills  — stay  down 
stairs  a week  before  they  are  delivered. 

Poor  things  ! — they  feel  themselves  perfect  ciphers 
every  time  they  see  a family  man  go  strutting  past,  like 
chanticleer  with  his  hen  and  chickens  ! Afraid  to  ask  a 
woman  to  have  them,  for  fear  she  will  say  “ No ! ” Ain’t 
their  sufferings  intolerable  ? 


BORROWED  LIGHT. 


“ Don’t  rely  too  much  on  the  torches  of  others  ; — light  one  of 
your  own.” 

Don’t  you  do  it ! — borrowed  light  is  all  the  fashion. 
For  instance,  you  wake  up  some  morning,  fully  persuaded 
that  your  destiny  lies  undeveloped  in  an  inkstand.  Well, 
select  some  popular  writer ; read  over  his  or  her  articles 
carefully ; note  their  peculiarities  and  fine  points,  and 
then  copy  your  model  just  as  closely  as  possible.  Bor- 
row whole  sentences,  if  you  like,  taking  care  to  transpose 
the  words  a little.  Baptize  all  your  heroes  and  heroines 
at  the  same  font ; — be  facetious,  sentimental,  pathetic, 
terse,  or  diffuse,  just  like  your  leader.  It  may  astonish 
you  somewhat  to  ascertain  how  articles  which  read  so 
easy,  are,  after  all,  so  difficult  of  imitation ; but,  go  on, 
only  take  the  precaution,  at  every  step,  to  sneer  at  your 
model,  for  the  purpose  of  throwing  dust  in  people’s  eyes. 

Of  course,  nobody  sees  through  it ; nobody  thinks  of 
the  ostrich  who  hides  his  head  in  the  sand,  imagining  his 
body  is  not  seen.  Nobody  laughs  at  your  servility ; no- 
body exclaims,  “ There ’s  a counterfeit ! ” Nobody  says, 
what  an  unintentional  compliment  you  pay  your  leader. 


882 


BORROWED  LIGHT. 


In  choosing  your  signature,  bear  in  mind  that  nothing 
goes  down,  now-a-days,  but  alliteration.  For  instance, 
Delia  Daisy,  Fanny  Foxglove,  Harriet  Honeysuckle,  Lily 
Laburnum,  Paulena  Poppy,  Minnie  Mignonette,  Julia 
Jonquil,  Seraphina  Sunflower,  etc.,  etc. 

If  anybody  has  the  impertinence  to  charge  you  with 
being  a literary  pirate,  don’t  you  stand  it.  Bristle  up 
like  a porcupine,  and  declare  that  it  is  a vile  insinuation ; 
that  you  are  a full-rigged  craft  yourself,  cruising  round 
on  your  own  hook,  and  scorning  to  sail  under  false  colors. 
There ’s  nothing  like  a little  impudence  ! 

That ’s  the  way  it ’s  done,  my  dear.  Nobody  but  reg 
ular  workies  ever  “ light  a torch  of  their  own.”  It ’s  an 
immensity  of  trouble  to  get  it  burning ; and  it  is  sure 
to  draw  round  it  every  little  buzzing,  whizzing,  stinging 
insect  there  is  afloat.  No,  no  ! — make  somebody  else 
light  the  torch,  and  do  you  flutter  round  in  its  rays ; 
only  be  careful  not  to  venture  so  near  the  blaze  as  to 
singe  those  flimsy  wings  of  yours. 


MISTAKEN  PHILANTHROPY. 


“ Don’t  moralize  to  a man  who  is  on  his  back  ; — help  him  up,  8e^ 
aim  firmly  on  his  feet,  and  then  give  him  advice  and  means.” 

There’s  an  old-fashioned,  verdant  piece  of  wisdom, 
altogether  unsuited  for  the  enlightened  age  we  live  in ; 
fished  up,  probably,  from  some  musty  old  newspaper, 
edited  by  some  eccentric  man  troubled  with  that  incon- 
venient appendage  called  a heart ! Don’t  pay  any 
attention  to  it.  If  a poor  wretch  — male  or  female  — 
comes  to  you  for  charity,  whether  allied  to  you  by  your 
own  mother,  or  mother  Eve,  put  on  the  most  stoical,  “ get 
thee  behind  me,”  expression  you  can  mustei.  Listen  to 
him  with  the  air  of  a man  who  “ thanks  God  he  is  not  as 
other  men  are.”  If  the  story  carry  conviction  with  it, 
and  truth  and  sorrow  go  hand  in  hand,  button  your  coat 
up  tighter  over  your  pocket-book,  and  give  him  a piece 
of — good  advice!  If  you  know  anything  about  him, 
try  to  rake  up  some  imprudence  or  mistake  he  may  have 
made  in  the  course  of  his  life,  and  bring  that  up  a-  a 
reason  why  you  can’t  give  him  anything  more  substantial, 
and  tell  him  that  his  present  condition  is  probably  a salu- 
tary discipline  for  those  same  peccadilloes  ! — ask  him 


834 


MISTAKEN  PHILANTHROPY. 


more  questions  than  there  are  in  the  Assembly’s  Cate- 
chism, about  his  private  history,  and  when  you ’ve 
pumped  him  high  and  dry,  try  to  teach  him  — on  an 
empty  stomach — the  “ duty  of  submission.”  If  the  tear 
of  wounded  sensibility  begins  to  flood  the  eye,  and  a 
hopeless  look  of  discouragement  settles"  down  upon  the 
face,  “ wish  him  well,”  and  turn  your  back  upon  him  as 
quick  as  possible. 

Should  you  at  any  time  be  seized  with  an  unexpected 
spasm  of  generosity,  and  make  up  your  mind  to  bestow 
some  worn-out  old  garment,  that  will  hardly  hold  together 
till  the  recipient  gets  it  home,  you ’ve  bought  him,  body 
and  soul,  of  course ; and  are  entitled  to  the  gratitude  of  a 
life-time ! If  he  ever  presumes  to  think  diff’erently  from 
you,  after  that,  he  is  an  “ ungrateful  wretch,”  and  “ ought 
to  sufier.”  As  to  the  “ golden  rule,”  that  was  made  in 
old  times ; everything  is  changed  now ; it  is  not  suited  to 
our  meridian. 

People  should  not  get  poor  ; if  they  do,  you  don’t  want 
to  be  bothered  with  it.  It  is  disagreeable ; it  hinders 
your  digestion.  You  would  rather  see  Dives  than  Laza- 
rus ; and,  it  is  my  opinion,  j our  taste  will  be  gratified  in 
that  particular,  — in  the  other  world,  if  not  in  this  ! 


THE  MODEL  MINISTER. 


He  never  exchanges  ; — is  not  particular  whether  he 
occupies  a four-story  house  or  a ten-footer  for  a parson- 
age ; — considers  “ donation  parties  ” an  invention  of  the 
adversary  ; — preaches  round  and  round  the  command- 
ments, in  such  a circular  way  as  not  to  hit  the  peculiar 
ities  of  any  of  his  parishioners ; — selects  the  hymn  to 
suit  the  singing  choir  instead  of  himself ; — never  forgets, 
when  excited  in  debate,  that  pulpit  cushions  are  expensive 
articles  ; — visits  all  his  people  once  a month,  and  receives 
their  visits  whenever  they  choose  to  inflict  them ; — brings 
forth  things  “new  and  old”  every  Sunday,  more  particu- 
larly new ; — knows,  by  intuition,  at  a funeral,  the  state 
of  mind  of  every  distant  relative  of  the  deceased,  and 
always  hits  the  right  nail  on  the  head  in  his  prayers ; — 
when  he  baptizes  a girl-baby,  never  afflicts  the  anxious 
mother  by  pronouncing  Louisa,  Louizy ; — frowns  upon 
all  attempts  to  get  him  a new  cloak ; — looks  upon  bron- 
chitis, throat  complaints,  and  journeys  to  Europe,  as 
modern  humbugs  ; — never  wears  a better  coat  than  any 
cf  his  parishioners ; — submits  his  private  personal  ex- 
penses to  a committee  of  the  greatest  dunderheads  in  hia 


336 


THE  MODEL  MINISTER. 


congregation;  — has  the  eloquence  of  Paul,  the  wisdon. 
of  Solomon,  the  patience  of  Job,  the  meekness  of  Moses, 
the  constitution  of  an  elephant,  and  — lives  on  two  hun- 
dred dollars  a year  ^ 


THE  WEAKER  VESSEL. 


-*  Time  after  time  you  must  have  known  women  decide  questicns  on 
iJie  instant,  with  unerring  accuracy,  which  you  had  been  poring  over 
for  hours,  perhaps,  with  no  other  result  than  to  find  yourself  getting 
deeper  in  the  tangled  noose  of  difficulties.  A witty  French  writer  says, 
‘ When  a man  has  toiled  step’ by  step,  up  a flight  of  srairs,  he  will  be 
sure  to  And  a woman  at  the  top.*  ” 

My  dear  Monsieur,  laat ’s  Gospel  truth ; but  only  a 
gallant  Frenchman  like  you  would  own  it.  “Jonathan  ’’ 
would  whittle,  and  John  Bull  would  eat  roast-beef,  till 
jack-knife  and  digestion  gave  out,  before  they  would  step 
into  that  confession-box.  You  are  a gentleman,  and  a 
scholar,  if  you  do  live  on  fricasseed  kittens  and  frog-soup 
I’ll  tell  you  what  it  is.  Monsieur,  — between  you  and  I 
and  your  snuff-box,  — when  an  American  woman  gets  to 
the  top  of  that  mental  staircase,  she  is  obliged  to  appear 
entirely  unconscious  of  it,  or  it  would  be  “ disputed  terri- 
tory” quicker  than  a report  of  your  musket.  You  may 
have  heard  of  a place  this  side  of  the  “big  pond,”  called 
“ Bunker  Hill ; ” — if  you  have  n’t,  John  Bull  knows  all 
about  it.  Well,  all  the  husbands  over  here  have  signed 
the  “Declaration  of  Independence,” — that’s  all,  — and 

the  way  they  won’t  surrender  to  flesh  and  blood,  or  even 
O ^2 


538 


THE  WEAKER  VESSEL. 


to  one  of  their  own  “ ribs/'  would  be  edifying  to  your 
French  ears.  Consequently,  my  dear  Monsieur,  what 
can’t  be  had  by  force,  must  be  won  by  stratagem.  So 
we  sit  on  “that  top  stair,”  and  laugh  in  our  sleeves 
at  them,  — all  the  time  demurely  deferring  to  their 
opinion.  Just  so  long  as  they  have  no  suspicion  of  bit, 
bridle,  or  mistress,  they  can  be  led  by  the  nose.  It  is 
only  very  fresh  ones.  Monsieur,  who  keep  the  reins  in 
sight.  You  won’t  be  astonished  to  hear,  in  such  cases, 
that  there  ^ 5 great  rearing,  and  plunging,  and  curveting, 
without  ^ven  the  reward  of  “ throwing  dust  in  the  eyes  ” 
of  the  animal  driven.  I think  you  will  agree  with  me, 
that  it  is  a great  mistake  to  contend  with  one  of  the 
“ lords  of  creation.”  A little  finesse^  Monsieur ; — you 
understand  ! — walk  round  the  bump  of  antagonism,  and 
pat  the  bump  of  self-conceit.  That’s  the  way  we  do  it. 

Remember  me  to  “ my  uncle’s  ” nephew ; and  tell  him 
tie  is  about  as  near  the  mental  stature  of  “ Napoleon,”  a 
Tom  Thumb  is  to  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  ! Bon  jour  ! 


A TEMPEST  IN  A THIMBLE. 


Never  in  Frogtown  ? That  shows  you  have  not  made 
the  “ grand  tour.”  It  had  one  long  street,  one  orthodox 
steeple,  one  blacksmith’s  shop,  one  town-pump,  one  pair 
of  hay-scales,  and  a little  thread -and-needle  shop,  four 
feet  square.  Should  you  go  into  the  latter  to  buy  a 
spool  of  cotton,  the  number  of  your  spool,  and  the  name 
of  the  purchaser,  would  be  ticketed  on  the  village  record 
in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

Wasn’t  there  a hum-buzz  in  Frogtown  when  sunset 
released  all  the  gossips  from  their  labors  ? Did  n’t  they 
collect  in  knots  in  the  door-ways,  on  the  fences,  on  barn- 
yard gates,  and  on  the  church  steps,  and,  with  rolled  up 
sleeves  and  eyes,  empty  each  their  particular  budget  of 
news,  and  compare  notes  and  observations  f The  tailor, 
the  farmer,  the  dressmaker  and  the  milliner,  loved  scan- 
dal, better  than  patronage,  or  coppers,  or  crops.  The 
price  of  the  minister’s  last  new  hat,  or  his  wife’s  new 
churn,  was  no  more  of  a secret  than  the  fall  of  Adam. 
They  guessed  that  the  ’squire  and  his  wife  had  had  a fall- 
ing out,”  and  “ they  guessed  the  ’squire  did  n’t  know  about 
the  smart  young  man  who  walked  about  with  his  pretty 
wife*,”  just  as  if  they  were  not  nested  up,  when  every 


<640  A TEMPEST  IN  A THIMBLE 

bush  in  Frogtown  had  an  eaves-dropper  under  it,  ana 
every  tree  had  a “ Zaccheus  ” perched  in  its  branches  ! 
And  Miss  Pinch,  the  seamstress,  who  had  been  five-and- 
forty  years  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  her  single- 
blessedness, laughed  derisively,  till  her  little  gooseberry 
eyes  were  quite  shut  up,  at  the  idea  of  there  being  a 
secret  in  the  village  that  she  could  not  be  at  the  top  and 
bottom  of. 

0,  Frogtown  was  a great  place ! Did  a stranger  walk 
through  it,  the  plough  was  left  sticking  in  the  furrow ; 
the  children  flew  out,  with  unwashed  faces ; the  matrons 
ran  to  the  door,  with  the  suds  dripping  from  their  red 
elbows ; the  dogs  barked,  and  poor  old  Brindleys  milk  was 
riled  up  for  an  hour,  trying  to  fathom  the  disturbance  ! 

iTou  ought  to  have  been  there  ! Such  an  event  as  it 
was,  when  the  “ Neptune  ’’  was  dragged  from  'the  engine- 
house,  once  a week,  to  be  washed ; when  the  “ trainers  ’’ 
shared  the  village  green  with  the  pigs,  on  a muster-day  ; 
when  the  old  cracked  school-house  bell  summoned  the 
Frogtownites  to  “ town  meetin’ ; ” when  the  minister’s 
son  walked  up  the  aisle,  on  a Sunday,  in  his  first  long-tail 
coat ! Kossuth’s  advent,  or  the  nuptials  of  Louis  Napo- 
leon, were  nothing  to  it.  The  excitement  was  perfectly 
tremendous. 

0,  they  are  “ fast  ” livers  in  Frogtown ! After  getting 
seasoned  up  there,  one  might  venture  to  spend  thtf 
“ carnival  ” at  Borne  or  a winter  in  Paris  ! 


THE  QUIET  ME.  SMITH 


“What  a quiet  man  your  husband  is,  Mrs.  Smith  ! ” 

Quiet  ! a snail  is  “ an  express  train  ” to  him ! If 
the  top  of  this  house  should  blow  off,  he ’d  just  sit  still 
and  spread  his  umbrella ! He ’s  a regular  pussy-cat. 
Comes  into  the  front  door  as  though  the  entry  was  paved 
with  eggs,  and  sits  down  in  his  chair  as  if  there  was  a 
nest  of  kittens  under  the  cushion.  He  ’ll  be  the  death 
of  me  yet ! I read  him  all  the  horrid  accidents,  dreadful 
collisions,  murders  and  explosions,  and  he  takes  it  just  as 
easy  as  if  I was  saying  the  Ten  Commandments.  He  is 
never  astonished,  or  startled,  or  delighted.  If  a cannon* 
ball  should  come  through  that  window,  he  would  n’t  move 
an  eye-lash.  If  I should  make  the  voyage  of  the  world, 
and  return  some  fine  day,  he ’d  take  off  his  spectacles, 
put  them  in  the  case,  fold  up  the  newspaper  and  settle 
his  dickey,  before  he ’d  be  ready  to  say,  “ Good  morning, 
Mrs.  Smith.”  If  he  ’d  been  born  of  a poppy  he  could  n’t 
be  more  soporific.  I wonder  if  all  the  Smiths  are  like 
him.  When  Adam  got  tired  of  naming  his  numer- 
ous descendants,  he  said,  “ Let  all  the  rest  be  called 
Smith!  ” Well,  I don’t  care  for  that,  but  he  ought  to 


J42  THE  QUIET  MR.  SMITH. 

have  known  better  than  to  call  my  husband  Abel  Smith. 
Do  you  suppose,  if  I were  a man,  I would  let  a woman 
support  me  ? Where  do  you  think  AbeFs  coats  and  cra- 
vats, and  canes  and  cigars  come  from  ? Out  of  my  brain ! 
“ Quiet?  ” — it ’s  perfectly  refreshing  to  me  to  hear  of  a 
comet,  or  see  a locomotive,  or  look  at  a streak  of  chain 
lightning!  I tell  you  he  is  the  expressed  essence 
chloroform  ^ 


PRUDENCE  PRIM. 


1 DON  1 know  about  this  being  “ a very  nice  world,” 
said  Aunt  Sally.  There  ^s  people  enough  in  it,  such  as 
they  are ; and  enough  of  them  if  they  can’t  be  any  bet- 
ter ; but  if  there ’s  one  kind  that  I can’t  get  along  with, 
it  is  the  hypocrites ! Now,  when  anybody  swears,  or 
steals,  or  cuts  another’s  throat,  I understand  it;  I know 
— on  the  spot  — which  commandment  has  been  tripped 
over ; but  these  two-faced,  oily-tongued  people,  who  twist 
and  turn,  and  double,  like  rabbits  in  a wood,  why,  it 
needs  a gun  that  will  shoot  round  a corner  to  hit  them, 
and  somebody  that  is  deeper  than  I to  see  through  them. 
How  exactly  they  will  mark  out  the  path  of  duty  for 
other  people’s  feet  to  tread  ! What  magnifying  glasses 
they  wear  to  look  at  other  people’s  sins,  and  how  very 
good  they  are  till  their  principles  conflict  with  their 
interest ! 

Prudence  Prim  was  of  this  order.  How  careful  and 
conscientious  she  was  to  admit  the  right  sort  of  toys  into 
her  shop  for  the  children ! All  the  drummers,  and  fifers, 
and  “ sojers,”  underwent  an  anatomical  examination  oefore 
they  stood  up  in  her  shop-window ; all  the  little  sixpenny 


tr44 


PRUDliiNCE  PRIM. 


cotton  handkerchiefs  had  hymns  and  creeds  printed  on 
them,  and  ‘‘  golden  rules,”  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  To 
be  sure,  Prudence  sometimes  gave  them  the  wrong 
change ; but  I Ve  known  that  done  in  other  places  than 
Prim  town  ! Be  that  as  it  may,  she  reigned  there  “ tri- 
umphant, happy  and  glorious,”  with  an  undisputed 
monopoly  of  juvenile  coppers,  till  “ cloven-foot  ” came,  at 
last,  in  the  shape  of  Miss  Giggle  and  a rival  toy-shop  ! 
Prudence  watched  her  with  a jealous  eye ; and,  finally, 
thought  it  her  “ duty  ” to  remonstrate  against  the 
Fanny  Elssler  dolls  she  was  exhibiting  in  her  shop-win- 
dow. They  were  “ frivolous  ” and  “ improper,”  and  she 
was  astonished  Miss  Giggle  “ could  let  herself  down  so  ! ’* 
The  little  folks  were  of  a difierent  opinion,  and  coaxed 
papas  and  mammas  into  the  same  belief.  Coppers 
changed  hands,  and  fiew  with  astonishing  celerity  into 
the  Giggle  treasury.  Mirth  went  ahead  of  melancholy 
til]  Prudence  could  stand  it  no  longer ; but  took  a dar 
ing  leap  over  her  “principles  ” for  the  sake  of  interest, 
and  Fanny  Elssler  dolls  were  forthwith  seen  kicking  up 
their  unrebuked  heels  in  Miss  Prim’s  snop-window  ’ 
“ This  would  be  a dull  world  without  laughing ! ” she 
said,  apologetically  ! 

Never  mind.  Aunt  Prudence ; we  won’t  inquire  too 
particularly  into  the  date  of  that  new-born  opinion  ! You 
are  not  the  only  specimen  extant  of  an  iron  creed,  and  an 
India-rubber  conscience  ’ 


MEN’S  DICKEYS  NEVER  FIT 
EXACTLY. 

Now  that  must  be  a mistake  ! Husbands  don’t  brmg 
home  a “ new  dickey  pattern,”  or  a “ French  fit,”  oftener 
than  seven  days  out  of  a week,  — I’m  sure  of  it!  You 
never  saw  one  sit  down  with  a dozen  sheets  of  paper  in 
his  lap,  take  up  your  scissors,  — looking  as  wise  as  Diog- 
enes,— and  after  wasting  any  quantity  of  paper,  and 
making  as  much  litter  on  the  parlor  carpet  as  a carpenter 
with  his  chips,  hand  you  a nondescript-looking  thing, 
saying,  “ Now,  Susan  — if  you  — make  — those  — 
dickeys  — exactly  — like  — that  — pattern  (?),  you  ’ll 
hit  it.”  Well,  with  a solemn  sense  of  the  responsibility 
of  the  undertaking,  “ Susan  ” does  as  she  is  bid,  — former 
experience,  however,  making  her  rather  more  sceptical 
than  Diogenes  about  the  “ hit ! ” The  dickey  is  done  ; 
washed,  starched,  sprinkled,  ironed  and  put  on.  In  about 
an  hour,  Diogenes  comes  tearing  back  from  the  office  to 
say  that  “ Tom  Smith’s  dickey  is  a little  lower  in  front, 
and  a little  higher  behind,  and  a little  more  hollowed  out 
in  the  sides,  and  has  two  rows  of  stitching,  and  fastens 
before  instead  of  behind,  and  if  Susan  will  make  these 
little  alterations  it  will  suit  bim,  and  no  mistake ! ” 


A LITTLE  BUNKER  HILL. 


**  No  person  should  be  delicate  about  asking  for  what  is  properly 
is  due.  If  he  neglects  doing  so,  he  is  deficient  in  that  spirit  of 
Independence  which  he  should  observe  in  all  his  actions.  Bighta 
are  rights,  and,  if  not  granted,  should  be  demanded.” 

A LITTLE  “ Bunker  Hill  ” atmosphere  about  that ! It 
suits  my  republicanism ; but  I hope  no  female  sister  will 
be  such  a novice  as  to  suppose  it  refers  to  any  but  mascu- 
line rights.  In  the  first  place,  my  dear  woman,  “ female 
rights”  is  debatable  ground;  what  you  may  call  a 
vexed  question.”  In  the  next  place  (just  put  your 
ear  down,  a little  nearer),  granted  we  had  “rights,”  the 
more  we  “ demand,”  the  more  we  shan’t  get  them.  I ’ve 
been  converted  to  that  faith  this  some  time.  No  sort  of 
use  to  waste  lungs  and  leather  trotting  to  Sz^A-racuse 
about  it.  The  instant  the  subject  is  m'^ntioned,  the  lords 
of  creation  are  up  and  dressed ; guns  and  bayonets  the 
order  of  the  day ; no  surrender  on  every  flag  that  floats  ! 
The  only  way  left  is  to  pursue  the  “ Uriah  Heep  ” policy ; 
look  ’umble,  and  be  desperate  cunning.  Bait  them  with 
submission,  and  then  throw  the  noose  over  the  will. 
Appear  not  to  have  any  choice,  and  as  true  as  gospel 


A LITTLE  BUNKEK  HILL.  34'/ 

j ou  ’ll  get  it.  Ask  their  advice,  and  they  ’ll  be  sure  to 
follow  yours.  Look  one  way,  and  pull  another ! Make 
your  reins  of  silk,  keep  out  of  sight,  and  drive  wheie 
you  like ! 


SOLILOQUY  OF  REV.  MR 
PARISH. 


“ 1 ’VE  really  an  intolerable  pain  in  my  chest,  sitting 
acre  in  my  study  so  long.  1 should  like  to  work  a little 
in  my  garden ; but  Deacon  Smith  thinks  ‘ it  looks  to 
secular.’  Brother  Clapp  has  offered  me  his  horse  and 
chaise ; but  Deacon  Smith  says  people  will  talk,  if  I ride 
about.  Well,  i ’ll  take  a walk  with  my  wife,  — I suppose 
I can  do  that.  Here^s  a hole  in  my  coat ; — it’s  all 
holes.  1 wonder  where  that  new  one  is  which  wife ’s 
father  sent  me.  0,  I recollect.  Deacon  Smith  says  it 
will  cause  heart-burnings  in  the  church  if  I wear  so  fine 
a broadcloth.  Well,  I’ll  go  in  my  old  one.  No,  I 
can’t  either;  Deacon  Smith  says  it’s  a reflection  on  the 
parish  for  me  to  go  out  in  an  old  coat.  I wish  my  peo- 
ple would  pay  me  the  last  two  quarters’  salary ; — think 
I ’ll  write,  and  tell  them  how  closely  I ’m  cornered. 
No,  it  won’t  do  ; Deacon  Smith  says  if  there’s  anything 
that  deserves  a rebuke,  it ’s  a minister  who  thinks  about 
money.  I wonder  how  long  I had  better  make  my  ser 
mou  next  Sabbath.  Brother  Jones  says  half  an  hour  , 
Brother  Clapp  three  quarters,  and  Deacon  Smith  sayfc* 


SOLILOQUY  OF  REV.  MR.  PARISH.  349 


they  don’t  get  their  money’s  worth  if  ’t  is  short  of  at 
hour  long.  Brother  Jones  is  a temperance  man  — 
Brother  Clapp  is  n’t ; — Brother  Harris  is  an  abolitionist 
- Deacon  Smith  says  he ’s  anti-fuss ! and  wants  the 
world  to  go  on  the  old-fashioned  way  ! 

Wife  has  just  been  in,  and  wants  to  know  “if  John 
may  go  a fishing;”  but  Deacon  Smith  say^  minister’s  boys 
never  ought  to  be  born  with  the  bump  of  destruction, 
liittle  Susy  wants  a doll ; but  Deacon  Smith  says  it ’s  too 
much  like  worshipping  wooden  idols,  forbid  in  the  Scrip 
tures  ! My  wife  is  worn  out,  and  needs  a servant ; but 
Deacon  Smith  says  ministers’  wives  should  never  be 
weary  in  well-doing.  Wife’s  sister  made  me  a present 
of  a book-mark  for  the  pulpit  Bible,  in  the  form  of  a cross ; 
Deacon  Smith  says  “ it ’s  a rag  of  popery ! ” — Mem. 
To  have  it  removed  before  next  Sunday.  I should 
like  to  change  with  Brother  Putnam ; but  Deacon  Smith 
says  he  has  never  made  it  quite  clear,  to  his  mind, 
whether  little  babies  are  admitted  to  heaven  at  nine 
months  and  two  days,  or  two  months  and  nine  days  ! — 
Brother  Hill,  too,  is  a very  good  man,  but  Deacon  Smith 
says  he  ought  never  to  have  entered  the  ministry  if  he 
could  n’t  get  the  curl  out  of  his  hair  I Beally,  I ’m  quite 
puzzled  to  find  out  the  path  of  duty ! ” 


TIM  TREADWELL. 


Never  saw  Tim  Treadwell  ? I am  astonished!  Well, 
he  bore  a striking  resemblance  to  a pair  of  rusty  tongs  in 
locomotion.  His  bow  was  a cross  between  a St.  Vitus 
shake  and  a galvanic  spasm.  It  was  edifying  to  see  him 
go  over  the  ground,  with  so  little  superfluous  play  of  limb 
or  muscle ; coat,  vest,  dickey  and  pants,  all  in  unyield- 
ing harness.  Tim  had  a realizing  sense  of  the  value  of 
the  dimes  and  dollars  his  Benedict  foresight  had  accumu- 
lated, and  poised  every  ninepence  long  and  affectionately 
on  his  foreflnger  before  committing  it  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  this  horse-leech  world.  It  mattered  little  to 
him  how  narrow  was  the  door  of  humiliation  through 
which  he  crawled  to  get  a step  higher  on  this  world’s 
ladder  ; he  was  perfectly  contented  to  play  lacquey,  for 
the  time  being,  to  any  pompous  aristocrat  who  would 
condescend  to  notice  him  in  public  next  time  they  met. 
But  what  was  very  astonishing  (notwithstanding,  Tim 
owned  a looking-glass),  he  labored  under  the  hallucina- 
tion that  every  woman  he  met  was  plotting  against  his 
single-blessedness.  He  read  a story  once,  in  an  old- 
fashioned  book,  in  which  “ Delilah  ” figured  very  con 


spicuously ; and,  though  it  would  have  been  a puzzle  to 
Solomon,  where  Tim’s  “great  strength”  lay,  he  had  a 
mortal  and  daily  horror  of  being  “ Samson  ”-ized.  Not 
that  he  lacked  appreciation  of  a pretty  face  or  form,  but 
he  considered  it  safer  to  admire  at  a distance,  and  never 
passed  a widow  without  an  involuntary  “pater  noster.” 
There  were  other  safe  and  innocent  amusements  which  he 
didn’t  feel  called  upon  to  deny  himself  For  instance, 
he  had  the  scent  of  a pointer  for  partridges  and  wood- 
cock, and  never  failed  to  call  in,  by  accident,  when  they 
were  served  up  at  a cosey  little  family  supper,  or  when  a 
birthday  was  gastronomically  celebrated.  He  had  a 
taste  foi  music,  too,  and  might  be  seen,  solus,  at  all  the 
concerts,  taking  a free  gratis  opera-glass  scrutiny  of  the 
pretty  women  whose  company  other  Benedicts  considered 
cheaply  purchased  at  the  tune  of  a bouquet,  a carriage, 
and  a three-dollar  seat.  Tim  never  was  known  to  make 
but  one  female  call,  and  then  he  took  his  friend,  Harry 
Smith,  along,  to  neutralize  the  force  of  the  compliment. 
He  was  fully  persuaded  that  the  ladies  were  ready  to 
drop  into  his  mouth  like  so  many  ripe  peaches  ; but  he 
had  no  idea,  — not  he  ! — of  shaking  the  matrimonial 
tree  ! The  greatest  proof  on  record  of  his  extraordinary 
sagacity  was  the  delightful  feeling  of  safety  which  came 
over  him,  in  the  company  of  a married  lady.  Poor  Tim 
Profound  Tim  ! Requiescat  in  pace  1 


[MPORTANT  FOR  MARRIED  MEN 


“ The  Budget  says,  that  a lady  lost  the  us€  of  her  tongue  for 
nearly  a week  the  other  day,  from  eating  too  many  tomatoes.  The 
price  of  this  indispensable  vegetable  will^  no  doubt,  rise  in  con- 
sequence.” 

No  it  won’t!  There  is  nothing  in  this  world — with 
one  exception  — that  gentlemen  love  so  well  as  to  hear 
women  talk  to  each  other.  You  are  sitting  tke-a-tete 
with  Moses,  at  your  domestic  fireside.  A lady  friend 
comes  in,;  she  is  bright,  and  witty,  and  agreeable. 
You  have  both  a tremendous  budget  of  feminine  “ bon 
and  good  things  to  share  with  each  other.  The 
question  is,  how  to  get  rid  of  Moses.  You  hint  that 
there  is  a great  political  meeting  at  Tammany  Hall,  on 
which  occasion  Cass,  or  whoever  is  god  of  your  husband’s 
political  idolatry,  is  going  to  speak.  He  don’t  stir  a peg. 
Then  you  adroitly  raise  the  window-curtain,  and  speak 
of  the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  how  many  gentlemen  are 
out  with  cigars  in  their  mouths.  It  don’t  “ end  in  — 
smoke  ! ” Then  you  ask  him  “if  he  has  carried  the 
morning’s  paper  over  to  his  mother  ? ” He  is  as  deaf  as 
a “ post ! ” Finally,  in  despair,  you  get  into  the  remotest 


IMPORTANT  FOR  MARRIED  MEN. 


353 


corner  of  the  room,  and  commence  operations,  leaving 
Moses  to  his  corner  and  his  book,  for  fear  of  disturb- 
ing (?)  him. 

Kitty  tells  you  a most  excruciating  story,  and  you  tell 
her  another  ; and  you  laugh  till  the  tears  start.  Well, 
now  you  just  creep  slily  round  Moses’  chair,  and  take  a 
peep  at  him.  St.  Cecilia ! if  that  book  is  not  upside 
down,  and  his  mouth  stretched  from  ear  to  ear  ! He  has 
swallowed  every  word  with  the  avidity  of  a cat  over  her 
first  mouse  banquet ; and  yet,  if  you  did  not  face  him  up 
with  that  upside  down  book,  he  would  persist  he  had  been 
reading  the  funniest  book  alive  ! And  so  he  has,  but  it 
was  not  bound  in  “ calf”  or  “ sheep-skin  ! ’ 

•28 


MR.  CLAPP’S  SOLILOQUY. 


Another  girl ! What  can  Mrs.  Clapp  be  thinking  of  ? 
It ’s  perfectly  ridiculous ! There ’s  four  of  them  now,  and 
that ’s  four  more  than  is  necessary.  I don’t  believe  in 
girls,  — lovers  and  laces,  ringlets  and  romances,  jeweliy 
and  jump-ropes,  silks  and  satins.  What ’s  to  be  done  ? 
There ’s  a whole  chest  full  of  my  old  coats  I ’ve  been  sav- 
ing to  make  my  boys’  jackets.  I wish  Mrs.  Clapp  would 
think  as  I do.  Another  girl ! Who ’s  to  keep  the  name 
in  the  family,  I ’d  like  to  know  ? I shall  be  extinct ! 
And  now  she  wants  me  to  put  up  a note  in  the  church 
for  “ blessings  received  ! ” 

Mrs.  Clapp  has  a very  obstinate  streak  in  her  disposi- 
tion in  this  respect.  It ’s  wasting  powder  to  reason  with 
her.  It  seems  to  go  into  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other. 
If'  she  gets  going  on  one  particular  track,  you  may  just 
fold  your  arms  and  let  her  take  her  time  to  get  off  it. 
She  knows  I prefer  boys,  — that  woman  does, — just  as 
well  as  she  knows  her  name  is  Hetty.  Well,  there ’s  a 
limit  to  human  patience.  I shall  tell  her,  very  decidedly, 
as  soon  as  her  gruel-probation  is  over,  that  a stop  must 
be  put  to  this.  It ’s  no  use  for  a man  to  pretend  to  be 
master  in  his  own  house,  when  he  is  n’t ! 


WHAT  MRS.  SMITH  SAID. 


“ Saint  Agatha  ! — not  been  out  of  the  city  this  sum- 
mer ? ” 

“ No  ; — Mr.  Jones  said  he  could  n’t  afford  it.” 

My  dear,  innocent  Abigail!  Mr.  Jones  smokes  his 
forty-nine  cigars  a day,  as  usual,  don’t  he  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well,  he  rides  horseback  every  morning  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well,  he  plays  billiards,  and  takes  his  sherry  and 
hock,  and  all  that  sort  o’  thing  down  town,  don’t  he  ? ” 

‘‘  Yes.” 

‘‘Well,  put  that  and  that  together ! Just  so  Mr.  Smith 
told  me — ‘couldn’t  afford  it.’  I didn’t  dispute  the  point 
It  was  too  much  trouble.  I smiled  just  as  sweetly  at  him 
as  if  I did  n’t  know  it  was  all  a humbug.  But  I verj? 
quietly  went  to  my  boudoir,  and  despatched  a note  to 

that  jewel  of  a doctor, , saying  that  I should  be  taken 

violently  ill  about  the  time  Mr.  Smith  came  home  to  din- 
ner, and  should  n’t  probably  recover  till  after  a trip  to 
Saratoga,  or  Niagara,  or  some  of  those  quiet  places. 
Well,  he  is  as  keen  as  a briar ; and  when  Mr.  Smith  sent 
for  him,  he  came  in  and  found  me  in  a state  of  foreor- 


356 


WHAT  >1  il  S . SMITH  SAID. 


dained  exhaustion,  in  the  hands  of  my  maid,  Libby.  He 
felt  my  pulse,  looked  wise  and  oracular,  and  said  I ‘ must 
have  instant  change  of  air.’  Of  course  I objected  ; de- 
clared I never  could  bear  to  bo  moved  ; was  quite 
entirely  run  down,  etc.  Doctor  said  he  ‘ would  n’t  be 
answerable  for  the  consequences,’  and  finally,  to  oblige 
Mr.  Smith,  I gave  in.  Understand  ? Nothing  like  a 
little  diplomacy.  Always  use  the  check-rein,  my  dear,  if 
you  want  to  start  Jones  off  in  a new  direction.  Men 
are  a little  contrary,  that ’s  all.  They ’d  be  perfect  treas- 
ures, every  mother’s  son  of  them,  if  it  was  n’t  for  that ! ” 


EVERYBODY’S  VACATION 
EXCEPT  EDITORS’. 

“ Everybody  is  having  a vacation  except  editors.*’ 

I SHOULD  like  to  have  the  editor  who  wrote  that,  look 
me  in  the  face,  answer  the  following  “catechize,”  and 
then  dare  whine  after  that  fashion!  Who  gets  tickets 
to  all  the  Siamese  boys,  fat  girls,  white  negroes,  learned 
pigs,  whistling  canaries,  circuses,  concerts  and  theatres  ? 
Who  has  a free  pass  to  railroad  celebrations,  water  ex- 
cursions, balloon  ascensions,  anti -slavery  fights,  Webster 
dinners,  Kossuth  suppers,  and  “ great  rejection  ” meet- 
ings ? WTio  has  the  first  great  squash  of  the  season  ? 
Who  feeds  on  anonymous  pears  and  nectarines,  straw- 
berries, grapes,  peaches  and  melons  ? WTio  gets  a slice 
of  wedding-cake  every  time  a couple  make  fools  of  them- 
selves, and  who  has  in  his  office,  year  in  and  year 
out  ? Who  has  all  the  big  and  leaser  literary  lights, 
male  and  female,  constantly  revolving  round  him  ? Who 
amasses  a magnificent  library,  free  gratis  for  nothing,  — 
save  a puff  or  two  ? Who  gets  pretty  bouquets  when  he 


35^  EVEKYBOJJS  S VAOATiur<. 

is  sick,  from  his  lady  contributors?  “Vacation!”  for- 
sooth ! Don’t  talk  to  me  ! I know  all  about  it ! The 
first  gentleman  I ever  saw  was  “an  editor.”  I have 
been  acquainted  with  them  ever  since  I was  knee  high 
to  a huckleberry 


OLD  JEREMIAH; 


OR,  SUNNY  DAYS. 

It  was  a sultry  morning  in  August  when  I fii’st  halted 
under  the  shade  of  Jeremiah  Crispin’s  old  sycamore  trees. 
Bless  the  old  house,  with  its  red  eaves,  and  the  little  shoe- 
maker’s shop  adjoining,  where  for  many  a long  year  he 
had  hammered  away  at  his  lap-stone,  at  peace  with  all 
mankind  ! His  wife  slept  quietly  in  the  moss-grown 
church-yard  near  by ; and  J eremiah  and  his  daughtei 
Xantippe  were  sole  tenants  of  the  red-eaved  house.  I 
beg  pardon  of  Miss  Xantippe,  for  allowing  her  father  tc 
precede  her  ! It  is  a sin  I should  not  dare  to  be  guilty 
of,  were  there  not  a good  twenty  miles  between  us ; for, 
truth  to  tell,  the  old  man’s  shop  was  the  only  place  where 
be  could  reign  unmolested  by  petticoat  government.  Dear 
old  J eremiah  ! When  the  house  was  too  hot  for  us,  what 
an  ark  of  refuge  was  the  old  shop ; and  what  cosey  talks 
we  used  to  have  over  that  old  lap-stone  ! With  what 
native  politeness  he  would  clear  a place  for  me  to  sit  be- 
side him,  where  “ my  dress  should  not  be  soiled  ! ” What 
long,  wonderful  stories  I used  to  hear  about  “ the  Brit- 


‘i5t50  OLD  JEREMIAH;  OR, 

ish and  how  skilfully  he  wove  “ a moral  ” into  the 
warp  and  woof  of  his  narrative  ! How  many  sermons  in 
disguise  did  I voraciously  swallow  ! and  how  sorry  we 
were  when  Xantippe’s  shrill  voice  called  us  in  ‘‘  to  sup- 
per ! With  what  a sublime  unconsciousness  of  “ out- 
ward appearances”  did  Jeremiah,  in  his  leather  apron 
and  rolled-up  shirt-sleeves,  grasp  the  back  of  the  rude 
chair,  with  his  toil-worn  hands,  and  say  “ grace,”  — trav- 
elling over  the  world,  never  forgetting  a tribe  or  nation 
that  the  sun 'shone  upon,  — embracing  Jew  and  Hottentot, 
black  and  white,  in  the  open  arms  of  his  Christian  philan- 
thropy, — to  the  manifest  discomfort  of  the  carnal-minded 
hens  and  chickens,  under  the  table,  who  were  impatiently 
waiting  for  their  share  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  ! How 
patiently  he  listened,  for  the  five  hundred  and  fortieth 
time,  to  Xantippe’s  account  of  the  obstreperous  conduct 
of  old  Br indie  in  “ kicking  over  the  milk-pail and  of 
the  ingratitude  of  the  hens,  who  persisted  in  laying  Jere- 
miah eggs  in  neighbor  Hiram  Smith’s  barn ! How  uncom- 
plainingly he  crumbed  Xantippe’s  sour  bread  — manufac- 
tured simultaneously  with  the  perusal  of  ‘‘  The  Young 
Woman’s  Guide”  — into  his  scanty  allowance  of  milk! 
How  circumspectly  he  set  the  four  legs  of  that  chair  down 
in  its  appropriate  corner!  How  many  impromptu  errands 
he  got  up  to  the  village,  after  sundown,  for  leather 
and  “ meal,”  (?)  as  much  my  delight,  as  to  the  aston- 
ishment and  indignation  of  the  asthmatic  old  horse,  who 


SUNNY  DAYS. 


B61 


had  a way  of  his  own  of  remonstrating,  by  quietly  stand 
ing  still  every  three  paces,  until  reminded  by  the  whip, 
that  — when  Xantippe  was  not  present  — Jeremiah  held 
the  reins  ! What  sweet  mouthfuls  of  berries  and  pretty 
bunches  of  flowers  found  their  way  into  the  wagon,  never 
foT»getting  the  mullen  stalk  and  elder  blow,  to  stow  away 
under  the  seat  as  a propitiatory  “ olive  branch  ” to  Miss 
Xantippe  ! How  many  nights  I have  been  lulled  to  sleep 
with  the  song  of  “ happy  Canaan,”  issuing  from  the  old 
raftered  chamber  across  the  entry ! How  many  mornings, 
with  the  flrst  golden  sunbeams,  has  come  to  my  ear  the 
tremulous  voice  of  old  Jeremiah,  “wrestling”  like  the 
angel  at  “ day-break,”  for  a blessing  ! 

God  be  thanked,  — in  this  day  of  many  creeds,  of  intol- 
erance, and  sham  piety,  — these  memories  sweep  over  my 
soul’s  dark  hours,  soothing  as  the  sweet  music  of  David’s 
harp  to  Saul’s  chafed  spirit. 

Jeremiah’s  simple,  unpretending  piety,  and  childlike 
trust  and  love,  chase  away  every  shadow  of  unbelief,  and 
again  I am  a guileless  child,  listening  with  round-eyed 
wonder  to  lessons  of  wisdom,  — then  but  half  understood, 
— from  the  silver-haired  patriarch,  over  the  old  lap-stone. 
P 


‘‘1  CAN’T.’’ 


Apollo  ! — what  a face  ! Doleful  as  a hearse  ; folded 
hands  ; hollow  chest ; whining  voice ; the  very  picture 
of  cowardly  irresolution.  Spring  to  your  feet,  hold  up 
your  head,  set  your  teeth  together,  draw  that  fine  form 
of  yours  up  to  the  height  that  God  made  it ; draw  an 
immense  long  breath,  and  look  about  you.  What  do  you 
see  ? Why,  all  creation  taking  care  of  number  one  ; — 
pushing  ahead  like  the  car  of  Juggernaut,  over  live  vic- 
tims. There  it  is ; and  you  can’t  help  it.  Are  you  going 
to  lie  down  and  be  crushed  ? 

By  all  that  is  manly,  no  ! — dash  ahead  ! You  have  as 
good  a right  to  mount  the  triumphal  car  as  your  neigh- 
bor. Snap  your  fingers  at  croakers.  If  you  can’t  get 
round  a stump,  leap  over  it,  high  and  dry.  Have  nerves 
of  steel,  a will  of  iron.  Never  mind  sideaches,  or  heart- 
aches, or  headaches,  — dig  away  without  stopping  to 
breathe,  or  to  notice  envy  or  malice.  Set  your  target  in 
the  clouds,  and  aim  at  it.  If  your  arrow  falls  short  of 
the  mark,  what  of  that  ? Pick  it  up  and  go  at  it  again. 
If  yju  should  never  reach  it,  you  will  shoot  higher  than 
if  you  only  aimed  at  a bush.  Don’t  whine,  if  your  friends 


“I  can’t. 


868 


fall  off.  At  the  first  stroke  of  good  luck,  by  Mammon  ! 
they  will  swarm  around  you  like  a hive  of  bees,  till  you 
are  disgusted  with  human  nature. 

“ I can’t ! ” 0,  pshaw  ! I throw  my  glove  in  your 

face,  if  I am  a woman ! You  are  a disgrace  to  cordu- 
roys. What ! a man  lack  courage  ? A man  want  inde- 
pendence ? A man  to  be  discouraged  at  obstacles  ? A 
man  afraid  to  face  anything  on  earth,  save  his  Maker  ? 
WTiy  ! I have  the  most  unmitigated  contempt  for  you, 
you  little  pusillanimous  pussy-cat ! There  is  nothing 
manly  about  you,  except  your  whiskers. 


A CHAPTER  ON  CLERGYMEN. 


0,  WALK  in,  Mr.  Jones,  walk  in  . A minister’s  time  is 
not  of  much  account.  He  ought  to  expect  to  be  always 
ready  to  see  his  parishioners.  What ’s  the  use  of  having 
a minister,  if  you  can’t  use  him  ? Never  mind  scatter 
ing  his  thoughts  to  the  four  winds,  just  as  he  gets  them 
glowingly  concentrated  on  some  sublime  subject,  — that 
Is  a trifle.  He  has  been  through  college,  has  n’t  he  ? 
Then  he  ought  to  know  a thing  or  two,  and  be  able  to 
take  up  the  thread  of  his  argument  where  he  laid  it 
down  ; else  where  is  the  astonishing  difference  between 
him  and  a layman  ? If  he  can’t  make  a piactical  use 
of  his  Greek  and  Latin  and  Theology,  he  had  better 
strip  off  his  black  coat,  unshake  his  “ right  hand  of  fel- 
lowship,” and  throw  up  his  commission.  Take  a seat, 
Mr.  Jones.  Talk  to  him  about  your  crops;  — make 
him  plough  over  a dozen  imaginary  fields  with  you ; he 
ought  to  be  able  to  make  a quick  transit  from  “ predes- 
tination ” to  potatoes.  \t^hy,  just  think  of  the  man’s 
salary,  — and  you  helping  to  pay  it ! Nebuchadnezzar  ! 
— have  you  not  hired  him,  soul  and  body  ? He  don’t 
belong  to  himself  at  all,  except  when  he  is  asleep.  Mind 


k CHAPTER  ON  CLERGYMEN. 


365 


and  give  him  a little  wholesome  advice  before  you  leave. 
Inquire  how  many  pounds  of  tea  he  uses  per  week,  and 
ask  him  how  he  came  to  be  so  unclerical  as  to  take  a 
ride  on  horseback  the  other  day ; — and  how  much  the 
hostler  charged  him  for  the  animal ; and  whether  he 
went  on  a gallop,  or  a canter,  or  an  orthodox  trot  ? 
Let  him  know,  very  decidedly,  that  ministers  are  not 
expected  to  have  nerves,  or  headaches,  or  sidoaches,  or 
heartaches.  If  they  are  weary  writing,  — which  they 
have  no  right  to  be,  — let  them  go  down  cellar  and  chop 
wood.  As  to  relaxation,  suggestive  of  beautiful  thoughts, 
which  a gallop  on  a fleet  horse  through  the  country 
might  furnish,  — where  the  sweet  air  fans  the  aching 
temples  caressingly ; where  flelds  of  golden  grain  wave 
in  the  glad  sunlight ; where  the  blended  beauty  of  sky 
and  sea,  and  rock,  and  river,  hill  and  valley,  send  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  through  every  inlet  of  the  soul, — 
pshaw  ! that  is  all  transcendental  nonsense,  fit  only  for 
green  boarding-school  girls  and  silly,  scribbling  women. 
A minister  ought  to  be  above  such  things,  and  have  a 
heart  as  tough  as  the  doctrine  of  election.  He  ought  to 
be  a regular  theological  sledge-hammer,  always  sharp- 
ened up,  and  ready  to  do  execution  without  any  unneces- 
sary glitter. 

The  fact  is,  Mr.  3 ones,  — between  you  and  me  and  the 
vestry  door,  — it  is  lucky  there  are  some  philanthropic 
laymen,  like  yourself,  who  are  willing  to  look  after 


366 


A CHAPTER  ON  CLERGYMEN. 


these  ministers.  It  is  the  more  generous  in  you,  be* 
cause  we  are  all  aware  it  is  a thing  you  don’t  take  the 
slightest  pleasure  in  doing  (?).  You  may  not  get  your 
reward  for  it  in  this  world,  but  if  you  don’t  in  the  next, 
I shall  make  up  my  mind  that  Lucifer  is  remiss  in  his 
duty 


UNCLE  JABE. 


“I’ve  always  noticed,”  said  Uncle  Jabe,  “that  the  man  who 
speaks  disrespectfully  of  a woman,  is  very  apt  to  be  an  unmitigated 
scoundrel.” 

Softly,  softly,  Uncle  Jabe ! Mind  whose  toes  you 
tread  on  ; you  may  make  them  hobble.  What  ^s  the  use 
of  being  a man  if  you  can’t  say  just  what  you  like  ? It ’s 
a pantaloons’  perquisite.  Out  with  it,  either  by  word  of 
mouth  or  in  print ; free  your  manly  bosom  ! 

If  you  know  a literary  lady  who  prefers  a quiet  life  to 
notoriety,  don’t  let  any  scruples  prevent  you  from  intrud- 
ing on  that  privacy.  Trot  her  out  before  a gaping  public. 
Notice  her  fine  personal  points,  with  the  same  free  and 
easy  familiarity  that  you  would  if  speaking  of  a well- 
formed  horse  or  pointer.  Mention  her  in  a dashing,  inso- 
lent vein  of  admiration,  as  if  it  were  something  she  was 
more  likely  to  elicit  than  respect. 

Advise  everybody  to  cultivate  her  delightful  and  fasci- 
nating acquaintance  as  intimately  as  you  have  (?),  if  he 
can  ! Not  a bad  idea,  you  see,  of  advertising  yourself,  by 
hitching  on  to  her  literary  apron-string,  especially  when 
your  own  ascension-robe  has  been  tediously  long  in  making 


868 


UNCLE  JABE 


Don’t  be  afraid  of  consequences.  You  know  you  can 
say  a thousand  things  about  a bonnet,  that  would  not  be 
quite  safe  to  say  about  a hat.  Immense  advantage  that, 
to  a gentleman  (?)  of  weak  nerves  and  courage!  The  most 
a woman  can  do  is  to  turn  the  ‘‘  cold  shoulder  ” to  you, 
and  that  don’t  begin  to  hurt  like  a cold  bullet ! 

Imitate  your  type,  — the  highwayman,  — who,  when 
requested  by  the  lady  he  was  robbing  to  desist,  “ as  she 
was  alone  and  defenceless,”  replied,  with  a grin,  “That ’s 
the  very  reason  why  I do  it  ’ ” 


AN  INTERESTING  HUSBAND. 


“ If  you  could  see  my  husband,  Solomon  Stillweather  : 
It  is  my  firm  conviction,  he  will  be  the  death  of  me  ’ 
I am  naturally  a happy,  bright,  energetic,  warm-hearted, 
chain-lightning,  impulsive  woman,  — born  after  stages 
were  exploded,  and  in  the  days  of  railroads  and  steam 
engines.  I have  the  most  capacious  heart  that  ever 
thumped  against  a silken  bodice ; — can  hate  like  Luci 
fer,  and  love  in  proportion,  and  be  eternally  grateful 
to  one  who  is  kind  to  me.  Now,  S-o-l-o-m-o-n  is  a 
perpetual  calm.  Nothing  ruffles  him,  nothing  disturbs 
him.  Mount  Vesuvius  could  n’t  make  him  hurry.  He 
does  everything,  — mercantile  and  matrimonial,  — bv 
rule,  square  and  compass.  When  the  proper  time  ar- 
rives, it  ‘ comes  off,’  and  it  don’t  a fraction  of  a second 
before.  Were  the  hou^e  on  fire,  he  would  stop  to  take 
the  lint  off  his  coat,  and  brush  his  teeth,  before  start- 
ing. If  I ask  him  a question  at  breakfast,  I never 
get  an  answer  before  tea.  He  walks  around  the  house 
with  a noiseless,  velvety  tread,  like  a superannuated 
pussy-cat.  Should  the  child)  en  in  their  play  knock 
P*  24 


370 


AN  INTEKE«a’lNG  HUSBAND. 


over  the  tea-table  and  its  contents,  he  looks  quietly  ap 
from  his  book,  and  drawls  out,  ‘ A-i-n-’t  y-o-u  r-a-t-h-e-r 
r-u-d-e,  c-h  i-l-d-r-e-n  ? ^ 

“ One  summer  evening,  in  the  country,  as  he  sat  on 
the  grass,  smoking  his  cigar,  it  occurred  to  me  whether 
anything  short  of  an  earthquake  would  start  him  up ; so 
I placed  a string  of  crackers  directly  behind  him,  and 
touched  ’em  off ; and,  as  sure  as  I ’m  a living  woman,  he 
never  so  much  as  winked. 

“You  should  see  him  getting  ready  for  church  on 
Sunday,  as  he  pares  and  polishes  his  finger-nails,  lays 
every  hair  on  his  head  over  its  appropriate  bump, 
sprinkles  a drop  of  cologne  on  the  north-west  corner 
of  his  pocket  handkerchief,  and  ties  the  bow  of  that 
cravat  for  the  for-^zc^^  time.  I never  saw  Solomon 
excited.  I never  heard  him  laugh ; — and  he  don’t 
know  the  luxury  of  tears.  Now,  if  I could  only  get 
up  a domestic  squabble  ! — thunder  clouds  clec*r  the 
atmosphere,  you  know,  — but  it ’s  no  use.  I ’ve  tried 
to  stir  him  up  on  politics  ; but  he ’s  ‘ on  the  fence, 
— had  as  lief  jump  one  way  as  another,  too.  I ’ve 
put  on  the  sulks,  and  been  distant  and  dignified  ; I 
tell  you,  he  likes  it,  — besides,  you  could  n’t  freeiiC 
him  colder  than  he  is.  I ’ve  been  loving,  and  petted 
him;  it’s  a waste  of  ammunition,  — he  cant  be  thawed 
out  ! 

It ’s  my  solemn  belief,  he  was  originally  intended 


an  interesting  husband. 


371 


for  an  old  maid,  but,  by  some  horrid  mistake  — he ’s 
my  husband.  I can  double  Cape  Horn  while  he  is  say- 
ing, ‘My  dear.’  0 — 0 ! when  the  Coroner’s  Jury  sits 
on  me,  won’t  the  verdict  be,  — ‘ Died  of  excess  of  still- 
weather  ? ’ ’ 


THE  MODEL  LADY 


h'er  children  jut  to  nurse  and  tends  lap-dogs ; — 
des  in  bed  till  noon  ; — wears  paper-soled  shoes,  and 
pinches  her  waist ; — gives  the  piano  fits,  and  forgets  to 
pay  her  milliner  ; — cuts  her  poor  relations,  and  goes  to 
church  when  she  has  a new  bonnet ; — turns  the  cold 
shoulder  to  her  husband,  and  flirts  with  his  “ friend — 
never  saw  a thimble;  — don^t  know  a darning-needle 
from  a crow-bar  ; — wonders  where  puddings  grow ; — 
eats  ham  and  eggs  in  private,  and  dines  on  a pigeon’s 
leg  in  public  ; — runs  mad  after  the  last  new  fashion  ; — 
doats  on  Byron ; — adores  any  man  who  grins  behind  a 
moustache  ; — and  when  a sked  the  age  of  her  youngest 
«hild,  replies,  Don’t  know,  indeed ; ask  Betty ! ” 


INDULGENT  HUSBANDS. 


“ A husband  too  indulging  is  apt  to  make  an  impertinent  wife.^ 


Now,  how  did  you  know  that,  Mr.  True  Flag  ? Bach- 
elors never  cut  their  wisdom  teeth.  But ’t  is  as  true  as 
gospel.  If  you  did  take  it  on  credit,  I endorse  it.  A hus- 
band should  always  wrap  himself  in  a mantle  of  dignity, 
-never  step  off  his  pedestal  to  be  communicative  or 
facetious.  The  very  minute  you  do  it  your  wife  will  take 
advantage  of  it.  I should  n’t  wonder  if  she  sat  down  on 
the  other  half  of  your  chair,  or  pushed  the  hair  off  your 
godlike  forehead,  or  settled  your  neck-tie  with  her  profane 
little  fingers.  Just  think  of  it  once.  You  ought  to  oe 
on  your  guard,  and  mind  what  precedents  you  set  up 
You  ought  not  to  call  her  anything  but  Mrs.  Jeremiah 
Jones ; and,  if  the  little  monkey  gets  loquacious,  just 
make  her  ask  you  a question  a dozen  times  over,  to  show 
her  that  you  have  a few  other  topics  under  consideration 
besides  those  she  suggests ; and  don’t,  for  mercy’s  sake, 
ever  ask  her  opinion  about  anything.  I would  n’t  give  a 
soap-bubble  for  your  connubial  sceptre  after  you  have 
committed  that  egregious  blunder.  If  you  can  ever  get 


374 


INDULGENT  HUSBANDS. 


the  noose  over  her  wilful  little  head  after  that,  my  name 
is  n’t  Fanny.  She  ’ll  arch  her  neck,  and  canter  off  to  the 
farthest  limit  of  the  matrimonial  pasture ; ten  to  one 
she  ’ll  leap  the  bars  if  you  persist ! Just  as  if,  when  you 
had  allowed  her  to  taste  the  sweets  of  liberty,  she  would 
bend  her  head  and  be  dragged  off,  to  trot  only  at  your 
pace,  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  Never  a bit!  So  I tell 
you,  — mind  how  you  begin.  Women  are  like  children  : 
they  won’t  bear  petting.  It  makes  them  saucy  as  the 
mischief!  They  never  will  stop  till  they  get  ready,  after 
they  once  get  a going,  if  you  frown  at  them  till  your  faee 
looks  like  “ Grlidden’s  Mummy.”  It  stands  to  reason  a 
man  can’t  be  trifled  with  that  way.  A lord  of  creation, 
too  ! Where ’d  be  the  distinction  between  a hat  and  a 
bonnet,  I ’d  like  to  know  ? Jupiter  Olympus  ! It  would 
be  perfectly  ridiculous  ^ 


A lERN  SOLILOQUY. 


That  I,  who  detest  uniformity ; who  go  frantic  at  a pair 
of  anything;  who  hate  ‘‘a  four-leaved  clover;’’  who 
adore  “ striped  grass,”  because  there ’s  no  two  blades 
alike ; who  love  the  clouds,  because  they  change  as  I 
gaze ; the  sea,  because  it  ebbs  and  flows ; the  wind,  be- 
cause it  is  untamable  and  fetterless,  — first  an  anthem, 
then  a wail,  then  a soft,  low  sigh ; that  I,  by  some  mys- 
terious Providence,  should  have  a pew  behind  the  six 
Misses  Pecksniff,  with  their  six  pink  silk  bonnets,  and 
six  rosettes  on  corresponding  sides ; with  their  six  sky- 
blue  shawls,  crossed  over  their  six  unappropriated  hearts , 
six  pair  of  brimstone  kid  gloves,  clutching  six  Village 
Hymn  Books,  folded  in  six  pocket-handkerchiefs  trimmed 
with  sham  cotton  lace ; six  muslin  collars,  embracing 
fcheir  six  virgin  jugulars,  fastened  with  six  gold  cross^*' 
all  of  a size  ! It ’s  perfectly  annihilating  ! I can’t  think 
what  I ’ve  done  to  be  punished  that  way.  I never 
“ stole ; ” I never  coveted ; ” I never  — well,  at  any  rate, 
I wish  they ’d  catch  the  cholera  or  a husband  — either 
will  answer  my  purpose,  as  far  as  they  are  concerned  ; — 
wish  they  would  n’t  sit  down  on  the  pew-cushion  as  if  it 


876 


A FBRN  SOLILOQUY. 


was  stuffed  with  live  kittens ; — wish  they ’d  take  a nap  in 
meeting,  or  get  off  the  track  in  singing  time,  or  get  into 
the  wrong  pew  ; — wish  there ’d  come  a shower  and  spoil 
their  six  pink  bonnets  ; — wish  they ’d  do  anything  but  sit 
there,  so  straight,  so  proper,  and  so  pasteboard-y.  0,  I 
shall  die  of  excess  of  Pecksniff,  I ’m  sure  of  it,  if  the 
sexton  don’t  put  some  of  them  out  of  sight  ? 


AUNT  HETTY  ON  MATRIMONY. 


“Now  girls,’’  said  Aunt  Hetty,  “put  down  your  em 
broidery  and  worsted  work ; do  something  sensible,  and 
stop  building  air-castles,  and  talking  of  lovers  and  honey- 
moons. It  makes  me  sick ; it  is  perfectly  antimonial. 
Love  is  a farce ; matrimony  is  a humbug ; husbands  are 
domestic  Napoleons,  Neroes,  Alexanders,  — sighing  for 
other  hearts  to  conquer,  after  they  are  sure  of  yours. 
The  honey-moon  is  as  short-lived  as  a lucifer-match ; 
after  that  you  may  wear  your  wedding-dress  at  breakfast, 
and  your  night-cap  to  meeting,  and  your  husband 
wouldn’t  know  it.  You  may  pick  up  your  own  pocket- 
handkerchief,  help  yourself  to  a chair,  and  split  your 
gown  across  the  back  reaching  over  the  table  to  get  a 
piece  of  butter,  while  he  is  laying  in  his  breakfast  as  if  it 
was  the  last  meal  he  should  eat  in  this  world.  When  he 
gets  through  he  will  aid  your  digestion,  — while  you  are 
sipping  your  first  cup  of  cofiee,  — by  inquiring  what 
you  ’ll  have  for  dinner ; whether  the  cold  lamb  was  all  ate 
yesterday ; if  the  charcoal  is  all  out,  and  what  you 
gave  for  the  last  green  tea  you  bought.  Then  he  gets  up 
from  the  table  lights  his  cigar  with  the  last  evening’s 


378 


AUNT  HE1TY  ON  M.s'lRTMONf. 


paper,  that  you  have  not  had  a chance  to  read ; gives 
two  or  three  whiffs  of  smoke,  — which  are  sure  to  give 
you  a headache  for  the  afternoon,  — and,  just  as  his  coat- 
tail is  vanishing  through  the  door,  apologizes  for  not 
doing  ‘ that  errand  ’ for  you  yesterday,  — thinks  it 
doubtful  if  he  can  to-day,  — ‘ so  pressed  with  business.’ 
Hear  of  him  at  eleven  o’clock,  taking  an  ice-cream  with 
some  ladies  at  a confectioner’s,  while  you  are  at  home 
•jew-lining  his  coat-sleeves.  Children  by  the  ears  all 
lay  ; can’t  get  out  to  take  the  air;  feel  as  crazy  as  a fly 
in  a drum.  Husband  comes  home  at  night ; nods  a ‘ How 
d ’ye  do.  Fan  ? ’ boxes  Charley’s  ears ; stands  little  Fanny 
in  the  corner ; sits  down  in  the  easiest  chair  in  the  warmest 
nook ; puts  his  feet  up  over  the  grate,  shutting  out  all  the 
fire,  while  the  baby’s  little  pug  nose  grows  blue  with  the 
cold ; reads  the  newspaper  all  to  himself ; solaces  his 
inner  man  with  a cup  of  tea,  and,  just  as  you  are  labor- 
ing under  the  hallucination  that  he  will  ask  you  to  take  a 
mouthful  of  fresh  air  with  him,  he  puts  on  his  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  and  begins  to  reckon  up  the  family 
expenses ; after  which  he  lies  down  on  the  sofa,  and  yoi’ 
keep  time  with  your  needle,  while  he  sleeps  till  nine 
o’clock.  Next  morning,  ask  him  to  leave  you  a ‘ little 
money,’  he  looks  at  you  as  if  to  be  sure  that  you  are  in 
your  right  mind,  draws  a sigh  long  enough  and  strong 
enough  to  inflate  a pair  of  bellows,  and  asks  you  ‘ what  you 
want  with  it,  and  if  a half-a-dollar  won’t  do  ? ’ Gracious 


AUNT  HETTY  ON  MATRIMONY. 


879 


king  ! as  if  those  little  shoes,  and  stockings,  and  petticoats 
could  be  had  for  half-a-dollar  ! 0,  girls ! set  your  affec- 

tions on  cats,  poodles,  parrots  or  lap-dogs ; but  let  mat- 
rimony alone.  It ’s  the  hardest  way  on  earth  of  getting 
a living.  You  never  know  when  your  work  is  done. 
Think  of  carrying  eight  or  nine  children  through  the 
measles,  chicken-pox,  rash,  mumps,  and  scarlet  fever,  — 
some  of  them  twice  over.  It  makes  my  head  ache  to 
think  of  it.  0,  you  may  scrimp  and  save,  and  twist  and 
turn,  and  dig  and  delve,  and  economize  and  die ; and 
your  husband  will  marry  again,  and  take  what  you  have 
saved  to  dress  his  second  wife  with  ; and  she  ’ll  take  your 
portrait  for  a fire-board  1 

“ But,  what ’s  the  use  of  talking  ? I ’ll  warrant  every 
one  of  you  11  try  it  the  first  chance  you  get ; for,  some- 
how, there ’s  a sort  of  bewitchment  about  it.  I wish 
one  half  th^  ^orld  were  not  fools,  and  the  other  half 
idiots.” 


WASN’T  YOU  CAUGHT  NAPPING? 


Tapper,  speaking  of  the  choice  of  a wife,  says,  “ Hath  she  wis- 
dom 1 it  is  well,  but  beware  that  thou  exceed  ! ” 

My  dear  sir,  was  n’t  you  caught  napping  that  time  i 
Did  n’t  you  speak  in  meeting  ? Did  n’t  cloven  feet  peep 
out  of  your  literary  shoe  ? Don’t  it  take  an  American 
woman  to  see  thi  mgh  you  ? Is  n’t  that  a tacit  acknowl- 
edgment that  th(i>^e  are  women  who  do  “exceed”? 
W'ould  n’t  you  think  so  if  you  lived  this  side  the  pond  ? 
Hope  you  don’t  judge  us  by  John  Bull’s  daughters,  who 
stupefy  themselves  on  roast  beef  and  porter.  I tell  you, 
Yankee  women  are  on  the  squirrel  order.  You ’d  lose 
your  English  breath  trying  to  follow  them.  There  is  not 
a man  here  in  America  who  knows  as  much  as  his  wife. 
Some  of  them  own  it,  and  some  don’t ; but  they  all  believe 
it  like  gospel.  They  ask  our  opinion  about  everything; 
sometimes  straight  forward,  and  sometimes  in  a circle ; 
but  they  ask  it ! There  are  petticoats  in  the  pulpit, 
petticoats  in  the  editorial  chair,  petticoats  in  the 
lecturer’s  desk,  petticoats  behind  the  counter,  petti- 
coats labelled  “ M.  D.”  0,  they  “ exceed  ” ! no  mis- 

take about  that.  All  h^malitv  is  wide  awake,  over 


wasn’t  YOC  caoqht  napping? 


381 


here,  Mr.  Tupper.  They  crowd,  and  jostle,  and  push, 
just  as  if  they  wore  hats.  I don’t  uphold  them  in  that, 
because,  as  I tell  them,  ’t  is  better  policy  to  play  possum, 
and  wear  the  mark  of  submission.  No  use  in  rousing 
any  unnecessary  antagonism.  But  they  don’t  all  know 
as  much  as  I do.  I shall  reach  the  goal  just  as  quick,  in 
my  velvet  shoes,  as  if  I tramped  on  rough-shod,  as  they 
do,  with  their  Woman’s  Bights  Convention  brogans  ! 


A LADY  ON  MONEY  MATTEES. 


“ The  Military  Argus  has  a long  and  prosy  article,  headed  ‘ Ho'w 
bo  make  Home  Happy.’  A friend  of  ours  has  now  a work  in  prep- 
aration, which  solves  the  question.  ‘ It  is,  to  give  your  wife  as 
much  money  as  she  asks  for.’  This  entirely  abolishes  the  neces- 
sity of  kisses  and  soft  si  ^*der.” 

Betty  ! throw  up  the  windows,  loosen  my  belt,  and 
bring  my  vinaigrette  ! 

It’s  no  use  to  faint,  or  go  into  hysterics,  because 
there ’s  nobody  here  just  now  that  understands  my  case  ’ 
But  I’d  have  you  to  understand,  sir  — (fan  me,  Betty  !) 
— that  — o-o-h ! — that  — (Julius  Caesar,  what  a Hotten- 
tot!)— that  if  you  have  a wife,  who  deserves  the  name, 
neither  “ kisses,”  “ soft  sawder,”  nor  “ money,”  can  ever 
repay  her  for  what  she  is  to  you. 

Listen  to  me ! Do  you  remember  when  you  were 
sick  ? Who  tip-toed  round  your  room,  arranging  the 
shutters  and  curtain-folds,  with  an  instinctive  knowledge 
jf  light,  to  a ray  that  your  tortured  head  could  bear  ? 
Who  turned  your  pillow  on  the  cool  side,  and  parted  the 
thick,  matted  locks  from  your  hot  temples  ? Who  moved 
glasses  and  spoons  and  phials  without  collision  or  jingle  ^ 
Who  looked  at  you  with  a compassionate  smile,  when  you 


A IiADT  ON  MONET  MATTERS. 


883 


persisted  you  “ would  n’t  take  your  medicine  because  it 
tasted  so  bad ; ” and  kept  a sober  face,  when  you  lay 
chafing  there,  like  a caged  lion,  calling  for  cigars  and 
newspapers,  and  mint-juleps,  and  whiskey  punches  ? 
Who  migrated,  unceasingly  and  uncomplainingly,  from 
the  big  baby  before  her  to  the  little  baby  in  the  cradle, 
without  sleep,  food  or  rest  ? Who  tempted  your  con- 
valescent appetite  with  some  rare  dainty  of  her  own 
making,  and  got  fretted  at  because  there  was  “ not  sugar 
enough  in  it  ^ ’ Who  was  omnipresent  in  chamber, 
kitchen,  parlor  and  nursery,  keeping  the  domestic  wheels 
in  motion,  that  there  should  be  no  jar  in  the  machinery  ? 
WTio  oiled  the  creaking  door  that  set  your  quivering 
nerves  in  a twitter  ? ‘ Who  ordered  tan  to  be  strewn 
before  the  house,  that  your  slumbers  might  be  unbroken 
by  noisy  carriage- wheels  ? WTio  never  spoke  of  weary 
feet  or  shooting  pains  in  the  side,  or  chest,  as  she  toiled 
up  and  down  stairs  to  satisfy  imaginary  wants,  that  “ no- 
body but  wife  ” could  attend  to  ? And  who,  when  you 
got  well  and  moved  about  the  house  just  as  good  as  new, 
choked  down  the  tears,  as  you  poised  the  half-dollar  she 
asked  you  for,  on  your  forefinger,  while  you  inquire  “ how 
she  spent  the  last  one  ? ” 

“ Give  her  what  money  she  asks  for  ! ” J ulius  Caesar ! 
— Jietty!  come  here  and  carry  away  my  miserable 
remains!  — Nobody  but  a polar  bear  or  a Hottentot 
would  wait  to  have  a wife  ‘‘  ash  ” for  “ money ! ” 


MKS.  CROAKER. 


“ How  do  you  manage  your  husband,  Mrs.  Croaker 
Such  a job  as  I have  of  it  with  Smith  ! ” 

“ Easiest  thing  in  the  world,  my  dear ; — give  him 
% twitch  backwards,  when  you  want  him  to  go  forward 
For  instance,  you  see,  to-day  I had  a loaf  of  cake  to 
make.  Well,  do  you  suppose,  because  my  body  is  in 
the  pastry-room,  that  my  soul  need  be  there,  too  ? 
Not  a bit  of  it ! I ’m  thinking  of  all  sorts  of  celestial 
things  the  while.  Now,  Croaker  has  a way  of  tagging 
■'ound  at  my  heels,  and  bringing  me  plump  down,  in 
he  midst  of  my  aerial  flights,  by  asking  me  the  ‘ price 
of  the  sugar  T ’m  using.’  Well,  you  see,  it  drives  me 
frantic  ! And  when  I woke  up  this  morning,  and  saw 
this  furious  storm,  I knew  I had  him  on  my  hands  for 
the  day,  unless  I managed  right ; — so  I told  him  that 
I hoped  he  would  n’t  think  of  going  out  to  catch  his 
death,  such  weather  ; — that  if  he  was  n’t  capable  of 
taking  proper  care  of  himself,  I should  do  it  for  him ; — 
that  it  was  very  lonesome,  rainy  days,  and  that  I wanted 
him  to  stay  at  home  and  talk  to  me ; at  any  rate,  he 
must  n’t  go  out ; and  I hid  his  umbrella  and  india-rub 


HRa.  CROAKER. 


bera.  Weil,  ol'  course,  he  flared  up  directlj,  — just  as 
I eipected,  — and  in  less  than  fiye  minutes,  he  yfos 
streaking  off  down  street,  at  the  rate  of  ten  knots  an 
hour. 

“ You  see  there ’s  nothing  like  understanding  human 
nature ! No  woman  should  be  married  till  she  is  thor- 
oughly posted  up  in  this  branch  of  her  education/^ 

Q 25 


THE  BORE  OF  THE  SANCTUM. 


Walk  in,  Mr.  Leisure ; you  are  perfectly  welcome. 
There  is  never  anything  of  importance  going  on  in  an 
Editor’s  Sanctum ; visitors  are  always  anxiously  expected, 
and  the  advent  of  anybody  like  yourself  is  a perfect  God- 
send. Editors  have  nothin of  consequence  to  do  ; they 
are  only  drones  in  the  literary  hive,  living  n th^ 
honey  made  by  thnr  subordinates.  They  hav  a little 
manuscript  and  a few  letters  to  read  occasionally,  and 
perhaps  a bill  or  tvro  to  settle,  now  and  then ; but  that  is 
nothing. 

Take  the  arm-chair,  Mr.  Leisuio,  — the  one  with  a 
cushion  and  revolving  seat ; draw  it  up  to  the  table,  and 
with  one  sweep  of  your  elbow  send  all  the  Editor’s  scis- 
sor-ations  flying,  like  snow-flakes,  into  the  air ; examine 
the  superscriptions  of  his  letters,  and  peep  inside  of  them 
if  you  like.  What ’s  the  use  of  calling  this  a free  coun- 
try, if  you  can’t  act  with  freedom  ? Pull  over  the  “ ex- 
changes,” tear  off  the  wrappers,  and  pocket  any  papers 
you  may  fancy,  before  the  Editor  has  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  them,  and  without  troubling  yourself  to  ascer- 
tain whether  you  are  welcome  to  do  so,  or  not.  Suppose 
you  are  not,  that ’s  nothing  to  you ; and  what  the  Edi- 
pfcT  < 1C  :)f  no  onseque 


THE  BORE  OF  THE  SANCTUM. 


387 


Order  the  office  boy  to  make  up  more  fire,  or  to  open 
a window,  just  as  your  individual  thermometer  may  dic- 
tate. You  will,  of  course,  wish  to  write  a letter.  Very 
well  ; help  yourself  to  paper,  - there  is  plenty  of  it,  you 
see;  and  a pen  and  ink,  too.  Interrupt  the  Editor’s 
cogitations  by  asking  him  the  day  of  the  month,  and  what 
county  the  town  of  Shrewsbury,  state  of  Iowa,  is  in. 
Tell  him  that  his  ink  is  abominable  and  his  pen  perfectly 
atrocious,  — throwing  in  a few  general  remarks,  to  the 
eflfect  that  editorial  and  hotel  pens  are  always  unmiti- 
gatedly  bad,  — and  set  him  rummaging  for  something 
better.  Then  tell  him  that  your  letter  is  to  a lady,  and 
that,  of  course,  you  want  a white  envelope,  instead  of 
“ one  of  those  yellow  things and  a letter  stamp,  too,  as 
you  must  prepay  it.  If  he  has  no  white  envelopes  or 
letter  stamps,  request  him  to  send  the  boy  out  for  some ; 
and  express  your  regret  that  you  have  no  small  change 
to  pay  for  them,  saying,  — and  you  can  laugh  at  your 
wit,  and  so  pass  the  thing  off  han  ^&ome^y;  — “ But  these 
little  things  always  regulate  themsv  ' in  the  end.” 
Having  sealed  your  letter,  vociferate  to  the  “ devil  ” to 
come  and  carry  it  to  the  post-office,  quick;  and  bor- 
row a quarter  of  the  editor  to  pay  him  for  carrying  it ; 
remarking  that  it  is  a principle  with  you  nevtr  to  ask  a 
gratuitous  favor  of  anybo ' y,  especially  of  a boy ; but 
that  you  always  pay  for  services  rendered.  Now,  yen 
"•sorrow  a cigar  from  the  editor’s  case  ; call  for  matches  ; 


€E  OF  T^E  SANCTUM. 


“ appij  the  caloric  m spared  weed:”  thiC^  your 

muddy  boots  over  a pile  of  accepted  manuscripts,” 
puff  away;  occasionally  in  « '•''m  b<^twe»  • > 

gurgle  and  a howl,  snatches  of — 

“ I knew  by  the  smoke  that  to  gra'?efuliy  curled,  ’ — 

or  of  something  else  “ appropriate  tv  -^casion  ever 
and  anon  knocking  off  your  cigar  a"  « into  the  inkstand. 

Your  cigar  finished,  turn  around  to  your  victim,  and 
ask,  in  a confidential  tone,  “ What  is  the  exact  circula- 
tion of  his  paper  ? ” and  stick  to  the  point  till  you  get 
some  definite  information  about  it.  Try,  also,  to  worm 
out  of  him  what  each  assistant  editor  gets  a week ; what 
contributors  receive ; how  much  the  advertisements  annu- 
ally yield ; if  some  persons  don’t  get  advertising  cheaper 
than  others ; if  the  J ournal  is  really  honest  and  impartial 
in  its  criticisms  ; who  actually  writes  the  leaders ; who 
writes  the  “ searching  ” articles  on  the  rascality  of  the 
Aldermen ; how  many  share-holders  there  are  in  the 
J ournal,  and  who  owns  the  most  stock ; what  is  the 
actual  valuation  of  the  establishment,  and  what  percent- 
age it  pays,  and  who  writes  the  musical  criticisms ; con- 
tinuing this  pumping  process  as  long  as  it  may  prove 
agreeable  — to  you. 

Ah  ! here  comes  a lot  of  proof.  Pounce  upon  it,  Mr, 
Leisure,  and  read  it  slowly ; although  you  see  the  com 
oositor  waiting  for  the  editor  to  correct  it.  Try  your 


fuF  BOR'  OF  IRE  SANCTUM 


380 


han^.  at  making  a fan  ^jorrections  yourself.  You  will,  oi 
course,  s^vrateh  and  bloi  tb*  pvoof  so  as  to  render  it  illeg- 
ible ; but  no  matter ; you  can  make  that  all  square  by 
throwing  it  down,  at  last,  with  the  exclamation,  “ that 
you  never  could  get  the  hang  of  correcting  proof.”  And 
now,  while  the  editor  is  restoring  the  defaced  document, 
you  should  carefully  examine  the  manuscript  copy;  as 
you  may,  perhaps,  recognize  the  handwriting,  and  thus 
make  another  addition  to  your  stock  of  useful  informa- 
tion. Proofs  of  the  telegraphic  despatches  and  other 
postscript  matter  are  now  brought  in  ; the  paper  is  nearly 
ready  to  go  to  press,  and  these  should  be  read  and 
returned  at  once ; but  never  mind ; you  must  have  the 
first  look  at  them,  — you  are  so  anxious  to  know  what  has 
“ turned  up.” 

You  can  wind  up  by  giving  the  editor  some  wholesome 
advice  about  the  management  of  his  paper.  Tell  him  it 
lacks  life  and  variety ; that  he  harps  too  much  on  one 
string ; that  there  is  not  back-bone  enough  in  his  arti- 
cles ; that  his  course  lacks  unity,  and  is  not  always  in 
harmony  with  itself ; that  he  should  have  more  young 
blood  in  his  editorial  corps ; that,  if  you  had  time,  you 
would  give  him  a lift  yourself,  by  sending  in  a few  spicy 
and  nervous  articles  on  miscellaneous  topics.  Take 
another  cigar  from  his  case ; light  it ; throw  the  unextin- 
guished match  into  a heap  of  papers ; drag  your  hat  across 
the  editor’s  table,  upsetting  his  inkstand  and  knocking 


390 


THE  BORE  OF  THE  SANCTUM. 


over  his  wafer-box  : carry  oli*  hib  bclbbors  and  penknife  by 
mistake  ; leave  the  door  swinging  wide  open  as  you  pass 
out,  and  tell  your  friend,  Tom  Smith,  on  the  next  corner, 
that  of  all  the  bores  you  ever  knew,  the  editor  of  the 
Journal  is  the  greatest ; that  his  paper  can’t  live  long, 
he  is  so  stupid ; that  he  has  no  appreciation  of  courteous 
attentions ; for  you  have  been  in  his  sandtum  nearly  all 
day,  doing  your  best  to  entertain  him,  but  that  he  never 
locked  pleased,  or  even  once  smiled,  while  you  were  there. 


OWLS  ktt.l  humming-birds. 


« We  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  oak  wants  stability  because  its 
light  and  changeable  leaves  dance  to  the  music  of  the  breeze  ; — 
nor  are  we  to  conclude  that  a man  wants  solidity  and  strength  of 
mind  because  he  may  exhibit  an  occasional  playfulness  and  levity.** 

No,  INDEED ! So,  if  you  have  the  bump  of  mirthfulness 
developed,  don’t  marry  a tombstone.  You  come  skipping 
into  the  parlor,  with  your  heart  as  light  as  a feather,  and 
your  brain  full  of  merry  fancies.  There  he  sits  ! stupid 
— solemn  — and  forbidding. 

You  go  up  and  lay  your  hand  on  his  arm ; he ’s  mag- 
netized about  as  much  as  if  an  omnibus-driver  had 
punched  him  in  the  ribs  for  his  :fere ; and  looks  in  your 
face  with  the  same  expression  he  ’d  wear  if  contemplating 
his  ledger. 

You  turn  away  and  take  up  a newspaper.  'There  ’s  a 
witty  paragraph ; your  first  impulse  is  to  read  it  aloud  to 
him.  No  use ! He  would  n’t  see  through  it  till  the 
middle  of  next  week.  Well,  as  a sort  of  escape-valve  to 
your  ennui^  you  sit  down  to  the  piano  and  dash  off  a 
Faltz  ; he  interrupts  you  with  a request  for  a dirge. 

Your  little  child  comes  in,  — Heaven  bless  her ! — and 
4tters  some  one  of  those  innocent  pettinesses  which  are 


392. 


OWLS  KILL  HUMMINQ-B  [ KD8. 


always  dropping  like  pearls  from  children’s  mouths,  ^ou 
look  to  see  him  catch  her  up  and  give  her  a smothering 
kiss.  Not  he  ! He ’s  too  dignified  ! 

Altogether,  he ’s  about  as  genial  as  the  north  side  of  a 
meeting-house.  And  so  you  go  plodding  through  life 
with  him  to  the  dead-march  of  his  own  leaden  thoughts. 
You  revel  in  the  sunbeams  ; he  likes  the  shadows.  You 
are  on  the  hill-tops  ; he  is  in  the  plains.  Had  the  world 
been  made  to  his  order,  earth,  sea,  and  sky  would  have 
been  one  universal  pall  — not  a green  thing  in  it  except 
himself!  No  vine  would  “ cling,”  no  breeze  “dally,”  no 
zeyphr  “ woo.”  Flowers  and  children,  women  and 
squirrels,  would  never  have  existed.  The  sun  would 
have  been  quenched  out  for  being  too  mercurial,  and  w« 
should  have  crept  through  life  by  the  light  of  the  pale, 
cold  moon ! 

No  — no  — make  no  such  shipwreck  of  yourself. 
Marry  a man  who  is  not  too  ascetic  to  enjoy  a good, 
merry  laugh.  Owls  kill  humming-birds  ! 


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